


MCMLXXIV

by TheonlyDan



Series: Little pearls, you're golden [5]
Category: Epica (Band), Nightwish, Real Person Fiction, Sharja, Within Temptation (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Crack, I Hope They're Not OOC, Psychological Trauma, Zombie Apocalypse, how the hell did I come up with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonlyDan/pseuds/TheonlyDan
Summary: Zombie AU.Now a finished work.
Relationships: Sharon den Adel/Tarja Turunen
Series: Little pearls, you're golden [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134146
Comments: 7
Kudos: 4





	1. The retreat

**Author's Note:**

> God I hope I can pull this one off.

Touch the water with your own two hands

Let the freedom bell bring calm to a troubled land

But all I feel are my two feet in chains

I know the system, but I can't figure out the game

_—Avenged Sevenfold_

_MCMLXXIV_

Blood caked onto that tattoo on her wrist. It might be her birth year but that was the last thing Sharon should worry about. Inspecting the wounds of Robert, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her face stony.

He was not going to make it.

The bites were too deep. Even if he was immune to the virus, he already lost too much blood on their way here, a desolate warehouse they stumbled upon days ago. The place here was discovered with blind luck. Then when they combed the area for supplies, they clashed with a horde of _Nightwalkers_ —a name too good for those fuckos. Now their magazines of ammunition were half empty, no thanks to their rotten luck.

The angry gashes slit across Robert’s chest were the handiwork of a mob, encountered days ago when they were still in _Region 19_. Now the wounds were swollen with shades of red and purple, a dangerous sign of blood poisoning—medically speaking, _septic shock_.

“It is that bad, huh?”

“Shush. You’re in a fever. Rest.”

He looked pale, ghoulish and hollow with the insufficient light flickering between white and yellow. Sharon repressed her urge of tearing up. Robert was her best friend, the only one that shared the memories of being in _The Hospital_. His tattoo read _MCMLXXV_ , translated after the roman numerals, _1975_. They had guessed he was one year younger than Sharon. He used to tease her with that whenever they were not busy escaping from swarms of the undead, or caught in crossfires with greedy gangs. Sharon had gradually found the hilarity of the joke.

She had long forgiven him for his crime of passion. They were really lonely on the road, but even if (and that was a big “ _if_ ”) Sharon had a tad bit of attraction towards the younger man, he shouldn’t have forced himself on her. Not even when he was high and delirious on medical morphine.

But all was left were fond memories now. Sharon could only afford to think that way: _brother and sister till death do them apart._

Sharon’s grimy clothes were tattered and torn. She was spent, and she had not even started to count the numbers of the newly-deceased. They started as a fifteen-member pack, then every week somebody died. After three months Rob and she were all that was left, now that he was leaving her, too.

Even if her new ally had proven herself trustworthy and was pretty good in combats, it wouldn’t lessen the pain accumulating with every beat of Sharon’s heart.

“I got some bandages.” Speaking of the devil, Tarja appeared out of nowhere, a box of supplies in hand, voice grim with her thick accent, “Got it from that store we passed by today.”

“Impressive.”

Robert tried a low whistle but ended up coughing blood. Their new ally regarded him with a cool gaze, undisturbed, and knelt down to help. Sharon flinched instinctively. She was still not used to the eccentric presence of Tarja. The raven-haired warrior joined their force about a month ago with a nervous Hispanic. Marcelo was his name. Sharon had guessed her companion to be her partner (friend? Husband?), but when Marcelo died, Tarja didn’t shed a single tear.

“After tonight, you take care of yourself.”

Rob coughed again, sick drops of sweat forming on his oily forehead. Tarja went on with the biding, movements precise without mercy. Sharon clenched her fists together hard enough to draw blood.

“Nonsense. You are going to live.”

“Nope, he probably won’t.”

Tarja interrupted. The sly grin extending on Robert’s face vanquished Sharon’s desire to snap at the other woman.

“Tarja, you remember what I said to you the other night?” He winced as she finished the wrap with an extra tug. She gave him a terse nod and stared calmly into the dying man’s eyes, “You take good care of Sharon.” Then after a brief pause to ease out his breathing, “And yourself, of course.”

“I will.”

“I don’t need her protection.” Sharon announced, a blatant lie. Robert’s expression evened out, melancholy blanketing his handsome features. “When did you have that conversation I don’t know about?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tarja commented and stood up in a whoosh. Sharon could smell that specific scent of female perspiration, whiffs of leather, and the metallic tang that belonged to their new ally. “The most important thing now is survival. And to find out the fuck does your tattoo mean.”

“It’s my birthday and it’s not gonna save the end of the fucking world.” Sharon shot back, “Now give me some time so I could talk to my _friend_ , all right?”

“Take all the time to say goodbye.”

Tone flat, Tarja walked away. But Sharon caught a brief glimpse of hurt on the other woman’s face.

“Well, well. _Muchas gracias_ for the catfight. At least I get to enjoy a show before I die.”

“Shut up you little piece of shit.”

Sharon said softly, and started to wipe away the dirt and blood on Robert’s face.

The grayish rag in her hand soon turned filthy-red.

***

To call it cremation was a nice way of putting it, or how else would you call burning dead bodies in the day (so you wouldn’t catch attention from the undead-fuckers that gang up at night)? The ceremony started as soon as the sun came out. It became a ritual of theirs, a belief they clang on to differentiate—

_Themselves and the monster? But you can never sever the monster living inside_

—humans and zombies.

“Long live humanity. May the undead cross over to the other side.”

Sharon whispered under her breath. Beside her stood her last companion, void of emotions, and Sharon hated her for that. It would be easier even if Tarja showed disdain towards her prayers. She disliked the shorter woman for venturing to the convenience store yesterday with Ruud and Stefan, then came back alone.

Not alone exactly (in Tarja’s defense) but with boxes of gauzes and bandages, cans of food, fresh clothes, duct tapes, alcohol and sanitizer, bottles of water, all that filling her backpack to the hilt.

But Sharon still didn’t like her. She wondered what was on Tarja’s mind now… _Does it even hurt when you got cut or bruised? Do you feel lonely each night when you had to tend to your wounds all by yourself? How does it feel when you have no feelings at all?_

As if she was reading Sharon’s mind, the shorter woman rolled her head to meet Sharon’s gaze. Sharon froze before the mint-greens, shrewd and even more transparent in the dawn’s light, but still revealed absolutely nothing.

“We should talk about our next move.”

Sharon let out a breath she had no intention to hold at that simple statement.

“Yeah, we should.”

The response sounded weary in the early morning. For an hour they stood in mourning, all silent except for the fire producing irregular cracks and snaps as it consumed the bodies, eager with ready licks of flame.

Sharon wished she wasn’t the next.


	2. The plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you one hundred percent sure? It was not a pretty scene, last I checked.”  
> “Hell yeah. Rock’n’roll, baby.”  
> Tarja gave a roll indeed—rolling her eyes until she could see earth before zombies.

But son, please keep a steady wing

And know you’re the only one that means anything to me

Steer clear of the sun, or you'll find yourself in the sea

_—Thrice_

“As I told you a million times before, we should already move to _Region 21_ because it’s pointless to stay here! We already stayed long enough here in _20_ and I really don’t know why you insist on going back. What, you think I was the one who killed your _friends_ yesterday?”

“Of course I don’t!” Sharon exclaimed, although the suggestion made (just a little bit of) sense. Her thoughts must have been pretty transparent because now Tarja was glaring at her, eyes ablaze with disbelief, “We _are_ going here—” Sharon gave some angry taps on the map, at a vague area where Tarja had pointed, “—after we stuff our pockets full of supplies that we could get our hands on! We don’t know what will happen on our little trek out there, so it’s fucking safer that way!”

“What’s safer,” Tarja said, icy and steady, “Will be _us_ —yes just in case you are not sure please, go ahead and fucking check the bones in the fire then you will see that _we_ are all that’s left, and _I_ am the only one you can trust now—what’s safer will be _us_ , moving along ASAP because we can be compromised!”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Our _position_ could already be compromised. _Nightwalkers_ aren’t the only thing we should worry about.”

_You should also be careful of the others._

Chest heaving in residual temper, Tarja shifted, producing a soft rustle as her knee supporters rubbed together. The shorter woman had a point: Tarja proved with actions, of how important it was to gear up at all times and never show a moment of vulnerability. _Because even if we are dangerous, all the other survivors are, too._

Tarja was in black from head-to-toe: black hair, black long-sleeved turtleneck that was not wool nor girly cashmere, but in quick-dry cotton and polyester; black cargo trousers in tougher materials, but loose enough for Tarja to bring about her skills in hand-to-hand combats. The edges of her pants were tugged smarty into a pair of black military boots, modified with knives that would spring to life with a delicate kick (Sharon winced for the man victimized by it. But he certainly deserved that since he was going to rape her), the faint “click” often announcing the downfall of Tarja’s opponent.

Sharon had lost count of the killer-cards hidden up Tarja’s sleeve. Those self-defense gadgets were in a dirty James-Bond style, hidden in inner pockets for nasty surprises, or tied visibly on the upper arms to demonstrate how dangerous she was. The weapons were not toys for amusements—those were _lethal_. Semi-auto pistols, knives for hunting or combat, daggers big to small, poison or bladed rings, and hell even those darts that only appeared in ninja cartoons. And as for Sharon?

Well, she had heightened senses and a healing process a few times faster than normal people—faster than those who didn’t have _tattoos_ —and that was it. She wasn’t in any tight corset or leather pants or ridiculous high-heels, like how the Hollywood movies painted female heroes. She was in a gray long V-neck (brown leather jacket left somewhere with her bag on the ground), a pair of jeans with abrasions and holes around the knees, and green hiking boots. There was a Swiss knife in her left pocket, a sheathed-dagger (that Tarja forced her to take it) tied next to a gun on her belt. She got the gun somewhere on the way out of _The Hospital_ , somewhere when she—

_—prying the piece of the clumsy weapon from the nurse’s cold, dead fingers, Sharon hyperventilates, her world tilting on its axes. The attack is massive. She doesn’t know where Robert and the others are. Someone bumps open the door and it’s a girl screaming in pain covered in blood with a monster clawing open her back until Sharon could see the intestines and organs flopping down onto The Hospital’s floor—_

“Sharon? Sharon!”

Tarja snapped her fingers in front of the brunet. Sharon didn’t look well today. There was a waxen hue on her cheeks, where normally her face would shine a healthy complexion. Tarja guessed it was because she had lost too many companions. The taller woman’s breath was labored, eyes staring into the void with horror and panic. Before Tarja could shake her awake, Sharon jolted away with her hand flying to her gun, her head rotating around in search for signs of attack.

“Sharon! Sharon, hey it’s me.”

Tarja didn’t move an inch. It wasn’t the first time Sharon lost herself in her trances, except now Tarja was the only one to comfort her. Raising her empty hands to show there was no threat, Tarja approached slowly. The colors gradually climbed back to Sharon’s cheeks while her eyes stopped darting from place to place. Her gaze focused upon Tarja’s face, and hardened.

“I am sorry.”

With shame clouding her features, she broke their eye-contact. Tarja returned to the cobwebby table to collect the map, folding it in a neat square with extra care.

“It’s fine.” Then with a beat, “I apologize for being such a bitch earlier.”

“Oh, hahaha. That you are.”

Sharon laughed dryly. Tarja tensed and threw a casual glance at the other woman, and after some inspection, she resumed her task with her shoulders relaxed.

“So how about we took the alternative route to the store, but not going inside? It’ll be quick and easy and that’s the best deal I can offer. Just to check that we didn’t leave any men behind. Then we can move north until we reach the stream, cross the border to the next _Region_ and all that.”

Tarja sighed. Sharon sounded cheery but guarded, and it showed just how obstinate she was.

“Are you one hundred percent sure? It was not a pretty scene, last I checked.”

“Hell yeah. Rock’n’roll, baby.”

Tarja gave a roll indeed—rolling her eyes until she could see earth before zombies. But she was also smirking, so faint that she thought Sharon didn’t notice.


	3. The fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have really beautiful eyes.”  
> If Tarja’s lips weren’t moving, Sharon would believe that everything was her own hallucination. But last she checked, her hearing and eyesight were superb (as always). So it was definitely Tarja who had just said her eyes were beautiful and what the fuck?

Please, remain calm, the end has arrived

We cannot save you, enjoy the ride

This is the moment you've been waiting for

Don't call it a warning, this is a war

_—Bring Me The Horizon_

The duo trudged under the sun, the smell of melting asphalt and scorching heat as their company. An AK-47 and a rifle swayed on the shoulders of the taller woman with a green, military backpack. The backpack was surprisingly intact even if it was covered with patches of dirt and blood. The taller woman’s expression was grim and weary as if it was all too heavy. Sweat had dampened the collar and chest area of her top. As for the other woman in black, you could hardly see her sweat (or anything else really), because she masked her face with yet another black piece of cloth.

But if you look closely into the shorter woman’s eyes, you would shiver because those were robotically, inhumanly green. Sharp enough to kill. Her expression was cold and absorbed, focusing on her own steps and breathings so it would take the discomfort away. She remained wordless with a heavier backpack, tired yet alert.

“Only three blocks left, right?”

After an hour or two, the taller woman broke the silence (or was it three hours? she lost count. It felt like eternity).

“Yes.” The other answered, voice cracking a little on the edge. After clearing her throat, she added, “You want some water?”

“Sure.”

They stopped in a shade, and indulged themselves with a few sips of water. The water would have to last at least three days before they reached the upper-stream. The worst situation would be having absolutely _no extra water available_ along the way, and now they had about two gallons of water. They decided to limit themselves with one litter of water per person a day.

It was going to be a hell of a challenge.

The taller woman checked the other, then quickly looked away. Their surroundings were in dull gray, murky white or undefinable shades of paint, peeling off of walls that were broken and forgotten. They had been rewarded with occasional changes of scenery: graffiti (Sharon raised a brow at the bold and extravagant _There are four basic human needs; food, sleep, sex and revenge_ ), shady alleyways of litter, or now, a healthy distance away from a front porch, a wooden swing chair swaying in the wind, screeching, the sound audible only to the taller woman.

“You good?”

The shorter woman finally looked at the other woman with Dutch braid. Her own hair was in a tight, simple ponytail.

“Yeah. Ready to go.”

Sharon and Tarja gathered everything, swinging them onto their feminine yet sturdy backs, then proceeded to the midpoint of their destination.

But neither of them knew where the endpoint would be.

***

The air was abnormally still before they stopped at the convenience store. Now, Sharon could hear Tarja’s heart accelerating its thumping.

“You nervous?”

Sharon asked without turning her head. The blazing sunshine was cloaking her until she couldn’t breathe properly. Sharon adjusted her eyesight, staring through the greasy glass door into the ill-lit store. A vacant counter on the left, the shop was strangely empty, which was odd because according to Tarja, there should be traces of struggles, e.g. blood, broken limbs or dead people splaying around.

“Just worried. You hear or see anything?”

“Wait, wait.”

Sharon kept the annoyance at bay as Tarja gave her another order. She focused and shifted her attention to her other senses. _Voila_. There were multiple sets of heartbeats inside. _Well, zombies don’t have heartbeats._ Seeing the optimistic expression of the taller woman’s face, Tarja cursed to herself.

“Sharon, honest to god can’t you see it’s a trap—”

But with no surprise Sharon had already entered the shop. Tarja followed suit, biting her tongue because she didn’t want to be the one shattering the other woman’s hope. She would let the truth unfold itself to Sharon.

And it cost them hugely.

In less than ten seconds Tarja heard the distinctive “clicks” of the safeties removed from guns. Nine guns emerged (several from the desk and others from the back) and were pointed at them, held by six men, all health in bad conditions. Two burly and tough, while the others looked like yes-man material.

“That bitch! She’s the one ambushing us yesterday.”

 _Wrong guess. The leader was obviously the one with the pistol._ A patched-eyed man cried, voice shrill and theatrical, pointing an accusation finger at Tarja. Sharon killed a fit of untimely laughter and put her hands up for surrender. Tarja copied her movements smartly. They were less than ten feet to the glass door, and Sharon could almost _hear_ what was on Tarja’s mind: if they back away now, they might have a chance to escape.

Sharon had to agree. She was the one dragging them into this.

“We meant no harm—”

“Shut the fuck up.” The supposed-to-be alpha growled. He had tattoos covering his entire arm. He smelled bad, with rotten tissues hidden somewhere in his stained clothes. He was anxious, and Sharon could hear that his heart was giving irregular beats, each difficult “thud” putting Sharon and Tarja at the upper hand. If they would just stand here, the man would collapse on his own for exhaustion.

But time wasn’t on their side.

“We’ll make you pay for what you have done.”

A young man with shaggy blond hair groused, more of a complaint than a warning. Tarja identified the gang (or the rest of it) as the same people from yesterday, while she surveyed their surroundings. The longer they stay, the heavier the coming fight would be.

“Hey, hey wait. Let’s all just calm down for a sec, ok?”

In a pacifying tone, Sharon shifted a step towards the exit. The tattooed man fired at the door behind Sharon. Sharon jumped and Tarja only frowned. Pieces of the glass had scraped onto her neck after the door exploded.

“Don’t move or the next one goes straight to your fuckin’ head.”

A bald man snarled, middle-aged with a mustache, his eye sacs and cheeks swollen. He had two guns. Tarja calculated her next move. The alpha male was standing twenty feet directly before them, with his followers now slowly forming a circle on her and Sharon. Their status quo had officially gone from not-well to bad.

“Let’s call it a truce today, ok? We both had lost too many men.”

“Yeah, but now you are out-numbered.” The leader grinned impishly, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth, “Now what should I do with a gorgeous lady like you?”

“We were out-numbered yesterday, too.” Tarja spoke, its suddenness creating a ripple of shock in the air. The gang stopped enclosing on them, uneasy, because they seemed to recall how the mysterious woman messed them up. _Terribly_. Sharon smirked to herself though her current situation didn’t allow her to. “What’s left of us, are the best of the best.”

“So you are saying that you two ladies are all alone now?” The tattooed man drawled. Tarja mentally kicked herself. But Sharon didn’t throw her a glare of annoyance. Together the women gave away nothing, and that brought a sense of comradery to the two. “No one to keep you warm at night, huh?”

Sharon could feel all the weapons weighing on her; with a cover and a quick swing, she could easily put them out, one bullet per person with the hefty rifle. They didn’t deserve the precious ones in her handgun.

Sharon only set her jaw. Unfortunately, there were no covers (after Sharon ruled out the possibility of using Tarja as her human shield), because the shelves and racks were pushed against the refrigerators (no electricity, of course). The emptied refrigerators were all walled-in. Food and supplies were out of sight; they must have hidden them elsewhere after Tarja’s “visit” yesterday.

The men were now hooting and exchanging dirty jokes. Tarja was suddenly one step closer to her left. Her heart was beating steadily, not yet hammering, and it gave Sharon a hypnotic sense of safety.

“You take Mustache, One-eye, and Blondie ‘cause you are closer to them. I’ll take care of the rest. On the count of three?”

Tarja whispered under her mask. Sharon wanted to protest why she got the easy ones, but she only gave a brief nod.

“One—”

Sharon breathed, in and out (tasting the sweat and body odor in the air), testing every fiber of muscle on her body; they sang to her, in coordinate with her hyper-senses.

“Two—”

Tarja’s hands crept to the daggers around her waist and secured them, their handles were polished and warm. Her eyes were locked on the tattooed man. After she took out the two minions, she would go for the groin then the knees of the alpha. When he sank onto the floor, Tarja would rotate him with a (painful) twist of his elbow, gun to his temple, making him the hostage. Then maybe Sharon wouldn’t have to finish off the rest of the bastards. Tarja knew Sharon actually didn’t like to kill.

_“Three.”_

Sharon didn’t hesitate when her opponents froze at Tarja’s actions. Two “thuds” came behind Sharon as she dove, gliding across the dirty tiles while her hands formed a death grip on the semi-automatic rifle, her trigger-finger ready as she pressed the buttstock against her shoulder, and fired.

The large piece of weapon discharged twice, then Sharon hissed when a bullet grazed her arm. She ducked just in time (thanks to her hyper-senses) when another flew dangerously close to her eye, causing it to only graze her cheek. Mustache was still standing in front of her, who was responsible for the shots. One-eye and Blondie were down.

Using the residual force of sliding forward, Sharon used the rifle’s barrel to knock the gun out of his hands. Seared by the muzzle, the bald man squealed, music to Sharon’s ears. She dropped the rifle and let it dingle to the right. Her hands flew down to pry her dagger loose from her belt, then ran it across the standing man’s feet, all done in less than two seconds. He screeched at the inch-deep cut and stumbled back, seeking for support while shielding himself from Sharon’s next move. He fell when his hands failed to grab onto the rack, producing a scratchy sound when he slipped. An unconscious smirk climbed onto Sharon’s face as she rose, looming over the wounded man, the blade of her dagger bloody and ready.

“Stop!”

Tarja hollered. Sharon spun around and saw her companion, unscathed, holding a gun at the tattooed man’s head. The other two were on the floor with knives in their throat. _Impressive._ Without a bullet, Tarja still managed clean-shots. The alpha was staying as still as he could, kneeling down with his hands twisted behind his back, several centimeters in the air. Judging by the agony on his face, Tarja’s angle of restraint was creative indeed.

“Please stop! Don’t kill me!”

He groaned, tears spilling and running on his puffy face. Sharon wondered about the chances for him to pass out, if Tarja added just a little more pressure. Her fantasies were jerked to a stop when fingers gripped onto her ankles, and _wrenched_. She lost balance with a shout, more startled than hurt when one side of her shoulder bumped onto the floor. Sucking a breath after the air got knocked out of her lungs, she pushed herself up and kicked blindly, getting rid of Mustache who was now trying to climb on top of her. A painful whimper erupted when Sharon’s boot landed on something mushy. _Jackpot_. She flipped herself around and saw the damages she made. The man’s face was bashed in. He was still struggling to reach his gun, his blood gushing out of his broken nose.

Then he probably wouldn’t have to worry about bleeding anymore. Tarja shot him at the temple.

“Hey! I got that!”

Sharon protested as she stood, a bit unstable when the items in her backpack clashed together noisily (but not as loud as Mustache dropping on the ground).

“’Course you do.”

Tarja remarked, and Sharon rolled her eyes. Pain started to drum steadily around her left shoulder, due to her fall.

“Where do you keep your supplies?”

After gathering her ego, Sharon pointed her chin at the scared man, now officially the only one alive in the pack. She scrunched up her nose when she found the wet spot near his crotch. The man had urinated himself. Tarja raised a brow at Sharon.

“What? He wasn’t going to live long anyway.” Sharon took a few steps towards him, confirming her deduction. “He was _bitten_.”

She lowered herself and yanked up his damp shirt. The man winced. A large, roughly-wrapped wound was presented to Sharon’s view. The white bindings were soaked yellow with pus and blood. Around the bandage, capillaries were swollen up in toxic purple, their shapes like spiders’ legs. Sharon felt a muscle twitch beneath her own eyes, as involuntary sympathy came in waves.

When the smell of rotten flesh penetrated her mask, Tarja frowned. Sharon was almost…ruthless today. From killing the two men in cold blood (not like she didn’t do the same thing herself) to suggesting that they should loot the dying man. If things backtracked, the Sharon she knew at the beginning would _beg_ Tarja to keep the man alive even if he was not an innocent.

 _But he still doesn’t deserve to die_ , Sharon would say, _none of us do_.

“Well?” Tarja blinked. Sharon asked with her hands on her hips, and to the shorter woman’s relief, she was addressing the zombie-bitten man, “You want me to repeat the question?”

“Kill me then.” He said with gritted teeth, his doom rousing the last traces of honor in his heart, “I’d rather die than to tell you bitches where they were.”

“You sure?” Sharon said, her voice dark again with intentions to kill, “’Cause I’ll be more than happy to avenge for my friends.”

“They died, well, _mostly_ because of the _Nightwalkers_.” Tarja chimed in, no redundant emotions involved. Her lock of the man’s hand was not relenting, “Ruud, Stefan and I arrived here at around four. We started a trade. We need medical supplies and food while they need ammunition. But _somebody_ —” Narrowing her eyes at the memory, Tarja gave a sharp tug at the manly hands, and elicited a muffled yelp. Sharon watched with amusement, “— _changed_ their minds then backed from the deal. Gunfire followed. A short one. Because then the sun went down…”

Tarja’s eyes dimed. Sharon exhaled, knowing what was about to happen. She knew this kind of story too well.

“And we got attacked!” The tattooed man finished Tarja’s sentence, exasperated. Sharon felt for him for just a moment, seeing how human he was. _But not for long._

“Your friends’ death can’t all be on us. We also lost half of our man last night.” Tarja remained silent, watching Sharon’s face intently. The taller woman had her brows furrowed, mulling over their current problem—another one in the morally-gray area. “So what’s it gonna be? You two trynna play good-cop-bad-cop?”

“I say we kill him now and put him out of his misery.”

Tarja said, as if bored. The man paused his breathing for a second and lower his head, his sweat, tears and urine creating a puddle on the dirty floor. Tarja said so more or less to see how the other woman would react. A beat went by, and Sharon finally connected her gaze with the cowering man.

“Do you want to live?”

Sharon was dead serious. The man under control chortled, but deflated at the last second.

“How long do ya think I have?”

“Do you feel hungry?” Tarja asked for Sharon’s sake, knowing that despite the taller woman had seemingly grown merciless, kindness still resided in her. Tarja let go of the man, and gave him a nudge with her gun as an encouragement, “Answer the question.”

The man shook his hand with relief, stretching them experimentally. After his blood-circulation went back to normal he stared into Sharon’s eyes and answered.

“A bit. Don’t know. My frigging head felt heavy and foggy all the time, and I don’t want water no more.”

Tarja found it truthful.

“You have a week or two, two weeks tops.” Tone crispy, Sharon continued, “And that’s _if_ we give you antibiotics and painkillers for the night. From now on whenever the sun sets your head would be hazier and heavier, until one day you lose conscious and became feverish. You’ll burn for a day or two, then you would become one of _them_.”

The man stayed immobile as the announcement of his fate struck in the air. His face was stripped of colors. Sharon watched another drop of sweat fell from his scarred brows. He was good-looking once.

Then with his residual strength, he whirled around, snatched the gun from Tarja’s unprepared fingers, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

***

“Ah fuck!”

Sharon cried, dropping a box of valuable tidbits—alcohol, instant food and drinks, an AED, band-aids (she already used two for her bullet-grazed arm and face), batteries, ammunitions and _fruits_. The bananas ( _fresh_ bananas in this godforsaken place!) were going to bruise but Sharon couldn’t give a flying fuck now. Her hand flew to the source of her pain, and started to massage her left shoulder.

Without Sharon’s consent, Tarja strode to her side. Her mask was now a makeshift bandanna on her shiny forehead. After they retrieved the weaponries, they discovered all the provisions in the garage, owing a big thank-you to the dead gang’s lack of imagination. They listed down everything. In that process Sharon ignored Tarja’s mostly; _just because the woman was here yesterday doesn’t mean she gets to decide EVERYTHING, ok?_ It ultimately led to yet another argument.

It was really hot in the back of the store, and you could blame nearly everything on the heat.

“I am fine.”

Sharon glared at the other woman. She had taken off her jacket and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. So did Tarja, and her leather gloves were placed somewhere next to the flashlights (no electricity, so they had to improvise. _Let there be light!_ ). Tarja’s arms were ghostly pale, but her face was flushed.

“Let me see.” Another fucking demand. Before she could snap, Tarja started to give her injured shoulder measured squeezes. Then she pressed onto a particularly painful spot on her joint, ripping a guttural scream from the taller woman. “It’s dislocated.”

“What?” Sharon questioned breathily, then recalled her fell on the tiles, back when the two parties were in conflict. With that she muttered, “Oh, fucking hell.”

The hand on her shoulder didn’t budge. Sharon realized that Tarja was going to help her whether she liked it or not. Well, it was not like she could do it herself.

“Could you…?”

“Hold still.”

At that request, Sharon was more nervous than she anticipated. She widened her clammy palms then clenched them. Tarja’s left hand found her other shoulder for support, her grip firm but not forceful. Sharon’s eyes searched for traces of emotions on the other woman’s face, hoping for anything to take her attention away. She had a broken bone before, but never a dislocation.

Then as if Tarja heard her wish, she altered the course of her leveled gaze, and stared into Sharon’s eyes. Sharon couldn’t tell what Tarja was thinking. There was only one thought that was playing on repeat in her head: they had never been this close before, and Sharon was also scared because she felt… _something_ in this proximity. It wasn’t supposed to make her feel anything (besides pain), but Tarja’s green eyes never looked this soft. Maybe it was the trick of the light, Sharon also noticed pink on the shorter woman’s cheeks. _Now, where did all of this come from?_

“You have really beautiful eyes.”

If Tarja’s lips weren’t moving, Sharon would believe that everything was her own hallucination. But last she checked, her hearing and eyesight were superb (as always). So it was definitely Tarja who had just said her eyes were beautiful and _what the fuck?_ Or to be precise, _why_ the fuck was the correct question. It was not like Tarja was interested in her in any way because that would be ridiculous—

A twist, a loud snap sending vibration up Sharon’s spine, and later, intense pain. _“Motherfucker!”_

***

“Where are the matches?”

“I have a lighter…somewhere I remember…Aha.”

With excessive enthusiasm, Sharon handed the device to the other woman. Tarja accepted with a muttered _thanks_ , not looking at Sharon; it reduced Sharon’s anxiety somehow. But Sharon still couldn’t quite grapple where the weird feeling came from. It was like she was disappointed at something. Or maybe it was the fact they were going to leave here by themselves. No Rob, Ruud, Stefan, Marti, Jerry, Mickey this time.

The afternoon sun left bright yellow shimmers on the abandoned house. Staring at the door-less store, then the splintered glass twinkling on the floor, Sharon could say the sight was almost beautiful in a gothic way.

_You have really beautiful eyes._

“All set?”

“Yup.”

Not waiting for Tarja to keep up, Sharon turned sharply on heels. She felt the heat even if she didn’t watch the whole thing catch fire. Sharon couldn’t bear to watch a piece of herself being swallowed by the flames.

Tarja lifted her gaze from the burning house, and fixated it onto the long trail of silhouette moving further away.

Sharon was walking into the sun while Tarja remained in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you if you saw the Banksy reference.


	4. The water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Finn’s hands didn’t tremble, nor did she look abashed. However, it would be an understatement to say she didn’t enjoy Sharon squirming.  
> In Sharon’s defense, she was merely appreciating Tarja’s feminine form and analyzing her own feelings and physical reactions.  
> And yup, she was pretty gay for Tarja.

I’d rather be a forest than a street

Yes, I would

If I could, I surely would

I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet

Yes, I would

If I only could, I surely would

_—Simon and Garfunkel_

_The forest smells damp and cold. The treetops leafed the sun and produce beams, the rays in shapes of a cent or quarter on the earth. Her hunting boots are too big but she only wears them today for good luck—they are her dad’s._

_“Mama, would you teach me how to make a trap?”_

_“Sure.” Her mother turns briefly to look at the ten-year-old. The little girl has that sadness in her eyes again, and she instantly knows her daughter is missing her father. “I have a gift for you, after we get to the cabin.”_

_“Really?”_

_The girl’s face lights up, her translucent greens shining with happiness. She gets her father’s eyes._

_“Uh-huh. You are going to be psyched at your birthday gift.” Slowing down, her daughter now walks beside her. She gives the girl a playful bump at the elbow, “But that is if you didn’t miss a target today.”_

_“I won’t.”_

_And the little girl honors her words. After they reach the hunting hut to gather their equipment, the mother notices that her girl hasn’t uttered a single complaint, carrying a nearly 8-pound weapon alone. She is particularly proud of what her daughter has asked before delivering the first shot of her life._

_“Should I shoot its head or its heart, mama?” Instead of questions like: do I really have to kill it? Her mother smiles. She has taught her daughter well after her husband’s death. Maybe her daughter can become better than he ever would be._

_“The heart, Tarja. Always aim for the heart.”_

_Tarja proves her mother’s philosophy wrong after her own daughter, Naomi, dies on her kitchen floor. She has fired multiple times at the heart the Nightwalker, each shot desperate and surreal, but the zombie keeps on clawing at Naomi, drooling, its bloodshot eyes bulging from the eye sockets. Her daughter screams for help—_

_(Mommy where are you! Make it stop!)_

_—and before Tarja knows it, she flings herself onto the undead, and uses her own teeth to tear the rotten larynx out of the zombie’s neck. Without a sound it pauses stupidly, blood gushing out from the wound, the smell knocking into Tarja’s face like a brick wall before she spat the foulness out her mouth._

_And it stays like that. Tarja shoves it away, with “Mommy where are you!” ringing in her ears as she gathers her daughter (or the rest of Naomi) in her arms. She can’t feel her hands when she understands in horror, that her daughter is probably never going to ask where she is again._

_Her husband comes home two days later, exhausted by the business trip, his mistress, and absolutely absurd fake news about zombie-breakout. A scream tears from his throat as he sees his daughter on the floor, with his wife sitting next to Naomi’s body, a gun in her hand, face serene with patches of dried blood and vomit. A medical kit is being knocked over beside the mess._

_Naomi’s frail body starts shuddering as if she is being possessed. Marcelo rushes forward, but stops at the odd look given by his wife. He shudders at it._

_“You aim for the head, not the heart.”_

_The husband blinks at the empty, senseless statement. But he is about to understand its meaning._

_Naomi’s eyes snap open, blank like marbles, and her supposed-to-be cherry lips are now purple with drool, slanting in a hideous angle. She is not Naomi. “It” is not Naomi._

_Marcelo’s warnings are lost to the sound of the gunshot when “it” lunges onto his wife. Tarja has already fired a bullet through its head._

_It drops onto the floor like a sack of flour, eyes still huge as marbles with its mouth strangely wide like it is always angry for meat._

_“You aim for the head, not the heart.”_

“Why do you always aim for the head, not the heart?”

Tarja’s breath hitched, cruelly severed from her reveries. Sharon was oblivious, (noisily and merrily) dumping everything on the forest floor. She ought to be happy. They had arrived at the border of _Region 20_ and _Region 21_ , and were setting up camp in a nice niche in between large tree trunks.

“Why ask?”

Setting her things gingerly on the soil, Tarja looked strangely detached. Maybe it was some kind of women-instinct, Sharon thought the other woman was a bit off once they entered the woods. Tarja always struck her as a nature-person.

 _Or she is not a person at all._ Sharon bit her tongue upon that thought, oddly discouraged.

“Just trying to make a polite conversation you know.” Sharon flailed her sleeping bag roughly in the air, “I don’t know about you, but I am going bat-shit crazy after not talking for days.”

“We did talk.”

Tarja frowned, fishing out their empty canteens and a box of iodine tablets. After meals of canned-goods and calculated water intakes, their bags had lost significant weight. It was a good thing that they could hunt for meat, now that they were in the forest.

Sharon huffed while flopping herself onto the unzipped-sleeping bag. A dramatic sigh soon followed.

“ _Do you want more of the tuna_ or _check if we’re still heading the right direction_ or _do you want some water_ don’t count as conversations.”

Mimicking the other woman’s accent, Sharon looked at the standing woman. In the setting sun, Tarja looked significantly smaller after she shed off her baggage and ridiculous joint-supporters (but perhaps those were why Tarja didn’t look as tired as Sharon, after they trod for over 70 miles in three days). A small pile of weapons laid beside her opening backpack, and Sharon tried not to marvel: _how the hell could Tarja stand all that weight?_

“I’m going to make us some clean water now.”

Tarja deadpanned, then walked away stiffly. Sharon chortled, but her tired gaze on the shorter woman was soft and amused.

***

She thought Tarja must have fallen into the water or something, but upon arriving at the riverbank she muttered a loud _fuck_ , and prepared her hatchet. A zombie came near within range, and besides hacking its head, Sharon had no better options. She wanted to join the gangbang less than five meters away, but Tarja looked like she was having too much fun; dancing with the undead, Tarja’s body had turned into flashes of an executioner. A _killer-shadow_.

Another zombie lunged (faster than the first one, so this one must be pretty fresh) before Sharon could draw her hatchet from the previous rotten body, so she took a step back and reached for her gun, firing at the center of its forehead. It dawned on Sharon about something she asked Tarja earlier, but Sharon could not afford moments of epiphany when the _Nightwalkers_ kept on emerging, their bulging eyes vacant and monstrous. Sharon pushed her gun back onto her belt, a hand tightening on the handle of a hunting knife (she borrowed it from Tarja’s stack of weapons.). Then after a sick, lewd “ _thwack_ ”, she had her other hand full with the hatchet, freshly torn from the dead-undead.

It was going to be a long night.

***

“Ugh, what I would do to have a shower _now_.”

Sharon groused, one hand grappling a half-full bottle (another canteen tied to her jeans with her belt), another hand supporting the other woman’s waist (Tarja was _tiny_ ). Tarja leaned on Sharon, heavy and wet, and gave no response as she limped forward. The bloodbath ended before Sharon started to feel all warmed-up. She took out ten while Tarja twenty-five or so, and that was frightening because according to Sherlock-Sharon’s observations, Tarja was first being _pushed down the river_ from the ambush. Sharon thanked the gods that her companion made it with only a bad-ankle, several harmless scratches/bruises. She tried not to think about what they would have to do if Tarja got bitten.

 _Kill me_ , she would say with that weird accent of hers (but Sharon had grown fond of it and would rather die to confess that), _before I turn_.

“What is your nationality, by the way? And I realized I have never ever asked you about what you do, you know, before _The Reckoning_.”

Sharon asked, tightening her hold on the other woman when she felt Tarja slipping away. Tarja grunted but didn’t protest. They were now only one hundred meters to the camp.

“Finland. Ex-cop.”

“Oh wow. A _European_.” _That totally explains the accent._ Sharon’s _Pre-Reckoning History_ and _Geography_ were pretty good. Her test scores in _The Hospital_ was the highest in her class. Sharon was fascinated with what the world looked like before _Nightwalkers_ were born, and although images of beautiful glaciers, magnificent historic sites, and bustling metropolitans were not lost to Sharon, she knew those beautiful pictures were just some text-book examples. “But just an ex-cop? Not some secret, bad-ass agent? C’mon, you are like the female version of Jason Bourne and Ethan Hunt combined.”

Sharon didn’t expect Tarja to reply to any of that. So when the Finnish woman spoke, Sharon’s brows nearly shot to her hairline.

“They’ve fed you too much Hollywood garbage in _The Hospital_.”

***

Tarja’s hearing was not as good as Sharon, but she knew the grounds were clear: the nightingales were chirping in a distance, joined by frogs croaking in harmony with the crickets. It brought a wave of comfort not because they were white noises. It meant that within a good range, there were no possible assaulters.

Tarja let the other woman rest while taking the first shift. She had a sprained ankle to tend to anyway. She could barely move her left foot, and judging by the pain exploding from the joint, the injury was somewhere between moderate to severe. Taking her boots off then her socks (wriggling her toes with relief), Tarja rolled up her pants and started to wrap a not-so-elastic bandage around the swell. It would have to do. She recalled her fall in the stream, and later, slipping stupidly on a rock (knocking her jaw, and it would no doubt start to bruise) which she used as support to climb back onshore. A pack of _Nightwalkers_ was up her ass, so you couldn’t blame her for being a little distracted.

“How bad was it?”

Tarja jumped, then met the eyes of the woman whom she thought was fast asleep. Sharon’s eyes were velvet-black in the dark, and Tarja reminded herself, that her eyes were actually brown.

“Not good. Could I take an aspirin?”

“Go ahead.”

Sharon sounded pretty surprised at the request. Tarja seldom asked for pills no matter how bad she was hurt. But again, most of the time, the Finn hid in the corner to lick her own wounds.

She watched the dark-haired woman dug out a pill bottle from her bag, movements lethargic. The look in Tarja eyes (yay, thanks to her superb eyesight Sharon got to see a hell lotta things) was not as sharp, and they reminded Sharon the day when she fixed her broken shoulder. Overall, the sight did something strange to Sharon’s heart, but not entirely unpleasant.

“Take two.” Sharon chirped when Tarja started to twist open the lid. “And for the record, I am not saying it just to brag about my healing ability, that I almost never need one of those...”

Sharon trailed off at Tarja’s reaction. The Finn’s movements slowed like she was considering Sharon’s suggestion. Under the moonlight, Tarja looked gaunt and pale like some Nordic goddess. Sharon noticed a tattoo on the other woman’s left leg, fairly intricate (floral, with something written in between the blossoming flowers), half-hidden beneath the folded fabric.

Tarja took two and put them in her mouth, one by one, dainty as if she wanted to savor the pills’ taste. Her eyes were foggy, and even if Sharon wanted to ask her about a million other things—

_Who is Naomi? Why did you tattoo that name on yourself? Did it hurt when you get that? Why do you seem guilty about taking pills? Were you once an addict? Is that the reason you became a retired police officer?_

—but Sharon’s eyes drooped heavily upon dwelling with her curiosity, then she passed out. She was too tired.

The silence caused Tarja to throw a delayed glance at Sharon. The brunet was asleep. A lullaby Tarja used to sing to Naomi started to replay itself in her ears, like a mantra that was out-of-tune.

Tarja lifted her left leg and placed it upon a duffle bag (she had been using it as her pillow, but she doubted that she would be stealing any sleep tonight). _Elevation will help as her body absorbed the extra tissues of the swelling_. She wished she had ice. She wished she had some ice in some vodka…or any kind of drinks, really. Even those cheap beers would do the trick, bringing that heavenly wooziness after three cans or four or maybe _a dozen_ (Tarja swallowed thickly at that). Then with a bottle of prescriptions, it would be a delightful afternoon of numbness.

God, not a day went by that she didn’t miss her daughter.

***

Tarja was blushing.

Sharon thought she was much cuter this way.

“…it is for your safety! The stuff you got, I got them too. So there’s no need for you to be shy. Besides, I won’t be staring the whole time while you’re naked. Swear I’ll be a gentleman.”

“No shit.”

Let’s rewind to where Sharon had woken up in the early morning. She found the other woman had dozed off deep into her own dreamland. Sharon should be pissed at Tarja’s self-righteous act of letting her sleep through the night, but instead, the peacefulness on Tarja’s face brought a flutter to Sharon’s stomach. She didn’t have time to think about her stupid feelings. She had to inspect Tarja’s foot (before she woke up then hid everything from Sharon’s sight).

Her heart sank. She shouldn’t have let Tarja finished the fight then tend to her injury later. But at least the Finn took some medicine, or the sprain would look worse than now—in a nauseating shade of red and the size of a Ping-Pong ball.

Tarja stirred when Sharon was building fire. The twigs were easy to collect (hey, to be clear she didn’t let Tarja out of her eyesight or earshot) but hard to be lit, so Sharon had to stack the drier leaves as the base for the damp wood. After some unsuccessful tries, she decided to spread the twigs around, and let the sunlight do its magic. She hoped they would be dry enough to ignite after she cleaned herself. Then maybe breakfast with _hot_ coffee would come true (Sharon’s heart elated at that luxurious word. _Coffee_ , the best thing that had ever been invented. So, colonization wasn’t that bad, huh?).

Now let us cut back to the present, where the Finn refused to believe that she needed someone to babysit her while she takes her wash.

“I insist. I saw your ankle today—”

“You _what_?”

“—and let alone walking, you could barely stand.”

Tarja got up defiantly, and Sharon caught the pain flickered by the Finn’s face. She came near to assist but Tarja took a step back. Sharon stayed where she was, repressing the annoyance because she was still high on caffeine.

“Then what about our things? Someone could come and rob us—”

“There is no one around us. At least half a mile. Plus, listen to the cicadas.”

Sharon made a point. The cicadas’ screaming was close to discomfort in Tarja’s ears. If there was any commotion, the forest would alarm them with eerie silence.

An irrelevant thought went by Tarja as she wondered, how could Sharon stand all this noise if her hearing was superhuman.

“So? Deal?”

Tarja felt uncomfortably warm (because of the sun, of course. She was not capable of being flustered), then she lowered her gaze to the forest floor.

Sharon took her silence as a yes. Tarja sighed and started to undress.

“Whoa Tarja wait a sec!” Sharon threw her hands up front, protecting her eyes from what she might see, “I thought we are going to the river first.”

“We are.”

Sharon put down her hands.

Tarja was not undressing. She was only taking every piece of her weapon off. Sharon stuttered, then pursed her lips together with a blush. The edge of Tarja’s lips quirked slightly upward as she bent over, unhurriedly disarming the daggers she snuck into her brackets. _It is too rare a sight, Tarja smiling,_ Sharon concluded amidst of embarrassment, _if she could smile more then maybe traveling with her wouldn’t be half-bad._

***

Sharon was not new with terms like _romance_ , _lust,_ or _sexuality_. _The Whitecoats_ and _The Guardians_ taught her all that in _The Hospital_ (plus, Sharon had educated herself with a healthy amount of naughty novels she could get her hands on). Eager and quick to learn, Sharon also scored the highest upon _Sociology_ , _Psychology_ and _Health Education_. She scored the highest on almost every subject except in _Foreign Languages_ ; her peculiar passion in _Dutch_ wasn’t helpful when she had to learn _Spanish_ , _German_ and _Chinese_ , just to name a few. But Sharon just _loved_ the culture of northwestern Europe (and was angry that _The Whitecoats_ decided _Dutch_ wasn’t a preservation-worthy language). She couldn’t explain it, but there was a yearning in her blood—a calling, maybe—that tethered her with the _Old Earth,_ _pre-Reckoning_. Sharon was angry and lost most of the time in _The Hospital_ , to be honest. In the hands of Darwinism, Sharon felt powerless, watching the _Nightwalkers_ destroying humanity.

So, speaking of the constant crave in her blood, _sexuality_ , and _lust_ , Sharon had formed a belief that _sexuality is fluid_. It even became the topic of her final paper (before she graduated from her unit in _The Hospital_ ). But before anyone of the teaches could see what no-good-Sharon had come with this time, all hell broke loose. _The Whitecoats_ thought they could contain the _Nightwalkers’_ virus, but humans never learn—they could never control nature. Mia, Sharon’s dearest friend, was torn to shreds before her eyes when she was trying to get a gun from Michael (her nurse and _Guardian_ ). It turned out monsters were not only in fairytales, and _The Whitecoats_ couldn’t protect you forever.

It was too easy to sum herself up that it was almost pathetic: being one of the many lab-rats in an experimental (a healthy dependent variable), bestowed with lucky independent variables like super-senses and fast-healing (those were just what Sharon knew about herself), and then……

Yeah. Sharon’s life was pretty much it.

Except since three months ago, the game Sharon had to play since birth, was shattered beyond repair. She now lived in her free will. Sharon was finally free without _The Whitecoats_ jotting quick, silent notes 24/7 beside her. Sharon was constantly thrilled and scared because she was finally living a life that was _not_ monitored with big, stupid machines that gave little “beeps” and sparked red or green lights.

And she was extra thrilled and scared _now_ , watching Tarja undress. A friendly reminder, that Sharon was _not_ new with terms like _romance_ , _lust,_ or _sexuality_.

“And you said you would be a gentleman.”

Tarja observed coolly (but the slight quickening of Tarja’s heartbeat didn’t go missing to Sharon) as Sharon’s gaze inevitably flickered downward, to Tarja’s pale thighs and her untrimmed pubic hair. _Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction would definitely bring it back._

Seconds before, Tarja cursed aloud (mostly for the pain) when she found she couldn’t undo her pants without putting pressure on her injured ankle. So, after Sharon’s support and fumbling around, she managed to make all the clothes below Tarja’s waist disappear. _A relationship milestone indeed_ , Tarja thought indistinctively to herself, half-amused, now tugging her hands free from the turtleneck. She noticed that Sharon was stupefied with a weird expression, flushing like she had never seen an about-to-be naked woman before (In Sharon's defense, that would actually be a rather rare occasion). The Finn’s hands didn’t tremble, nor did she look abashed. However, it would be an understatement to say she didn’t enjoy Sharon squirming.

In Sharon’s defense, she was merely appreciating Tarja’s feminine form and analyzing her own feelings and physical reactions.

And yup, she was pretty gay for Tarja.

It sent a voltage of red upon Sharon’s face. She was picking up all the little details: Tarja’s distinctive feminine smell (yeah, the kind that you’d only notice after you help someone take their pants off), the sight of her petite frame, her flat stomach with taut lines of abdominal muscles. Mouth agape yet nothing came out (no pun intended), she remembered to back away (but ended up stumbling) just in time to catch Tarja in her naked glory.

Showering under the brilliance of the sun, her alabaster skin glimmered with all its fairness, the paleness brought about the flamboyant tattoos—it turned out Tarja had two—one twirling her left upper arm, with _die alive_ written in bold letters, and another her left foot, both floral but in different styles. Before Sharon could have a good look her attention was drawn to Tarja’s small, perky breasts, pointing out with dark areolas at the tips. Unconsciously, Sharon swallowed, wetted her lips, feeling that her own pants had become uncomfortably tight.

She realized that she was aroused.

“Are you going to keep staring or what?”

Tarja finally spoke, nonchalant, a hand on her hip. Sharon bolted awake, the empty canteen tied to her belt jingling a little with the movement. Her gaze reconnected briefly with the Finnish woman. The emotions she found on Tarja’s face were close to glee and satisfaction, like she had caught Sharon in some masturbatory act.

Sharon didn’t know if her own heart could take all this _newness_.

“I’ll just…fill up the, uh, bottle.”

Sharon avoided Tarja’s knowing gaze, feeling clumsy and cranky and helpless.

Tarja watched as the taller woman kneeled by the water, her long brown hair spilling down, soft and a little sparkly, and blocked her face from Tarja’s inspection. Tarja exhaled soundlessly and loosened her hair; it cascaded down, just a few inches more to reach her hips. She couldn’t remember the last time she cut her hair. Perhaps several weeks before her daughter was dead. Time and appearance had lost their meaning to her after that.

Tarja advanced and stopped before the water, shampoo in her hand a bar of soap in another. The weather was pleasant, too nice in Tarja’s standard. The breeze felt warm and mellow on the skin, with the wind carrying smells of green across the 75°F air. Yesterday, in the cold, hostile dark, the river looked broader than it seemed. Now in daylight, in Tarja’s estimation, it wouldn’t be wider than 50 feet. But they would still have to figure out other ways to cross over.

Before Tarja reached for the water and ripple the liquid gold, she stared at her reflection.

She could barely recognize herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact about the "always aim for the heart" line: it's true that hunters tend to shoot their prey at the heart (and sometimes along with lungs) because it makes a bigger target than the head. Aiming at the heart area of an animal also makes a quicker, more ethical kill.


	5. The détente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing?”  
> “Have you heard of acupoints?”  
> “Yeah, sure. I don’t buy any of that shit. Are you saying that you’re going to jab me now with some hidden chopsticks?”

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

_—Louis Armstrong & Ella Fitzgerald_

The original plan was to stay alive, and at first it was difficult enough.

Their crew was quite an interesting mix: Sharon and Rob from _The Hospital_ , the others all from the _Old Earth_. They crossed paths on the very first day _New Earth_ collapsed (AKA, zombies breaking into _The Hospital_ ). It turned out that _The Government_ had been confiding information of the Nightwalkers-breakout. It was why Sharon and Robert were kept in the dark. No wonder _New Earth_ would fail; like _Old Earth_ , once the reign fell into the hands of dictatorship, any idiot can foresee the end of that nation.

When the alliance among the fifteen-people-crew was struck at the very beginning, Sharon and Rob were in nothing but hospital-gowns, with a couple of bites and wounds already scabbing in less than 24 hours; the other _Old Earth_ guys were kind enough to stick around, and filled them in with the latest trend. _Fear_ was the superglue that held them together: without Robert and Sharon, the rest of the people were like sand in a battered hand, losing its grip as the days went by. According to the other thirteen, they were neighbors to each other, in a peaceful countryside out of _The Government’s_ reign. For less than a month, ten people were already gone by the time they reached _The Government’s_ regions.

Putting the ugly truths out front, keeping Sharon and her friend around might be able to increase their chances of survival. Everyone heard words about what the lab rats could do nowadays. _The Government_ used to keep things transparent, congratulating themselves, and broadcasting their results of _The Grand Experiment_. As the zombie situation worsened, they decided to crank it up at _The Hospital_ as well. The _Old Earth_ people wouldn’t be too surprised if one day, those who were tattooed will be flying across the sky chivalrously like they were Superman.

The 15-member group became friends almost immediately. The notions that lab rats would be pampered princesses, and the _Old Earth_ people were a bunch of brainless violent mobs, were overthrown after one sleepless night—when they are about to change to a 14-member group. Death and danger can hold people together, more efficient than all the duct tapes and superglue combined.

Two weeks after, their crew was down to 10. Sharon had to alter their original plan. Other than staying alive, they needed to actually go somewhere. They decided to retreat to the south, with Guerrilla tactics involved.

Sharon regretted that she had made _any_ friends. Besides brainstorming up a new plan and a new route, she also had to multitask: reeling in her emotions, building a guard to distance herself from everyone, making it casual and brief to not catch feelings all the time. The pain of loss was too grave. Sharon decided if she didn’t invest at first, then it would be less heartbreaking in the end (oh well, it was a hard-earned first rule of survival 101). Robert, of course, noticed that his friend was drifting away. Sharon felt that he desperately wanted her old girl back, then perhaps something more…but she was just _not_ in the mood. Not even when things were finally on track, after they reached and lingered around _Region 2_ to _Region 5_. That was huge progress because they had finally dragged their asses out of _Region-fucking-1_ , where _The Hospital_ was located.

Unlike _The Hunger Games_ and other famous dystopian/utopian novels you might have read—as you may wonder why the hell _The Government_ had to name their territories in dumb numbers)— _Region 1_ was _not_ “The Capitol” to their “Panem”. _Region 1_ was in the mountains, for Chrissake. Imagine the surprise on people’s faces when a bunch of _Nightwalkers_ stumbled into _The Hospital_. _You can check out any time you like but you can never leave, you gorgeous-looking-meat_ , if the zombies could sing in chorus they would say that, _ain't no mountain high enough to keep us from getting’ some juicy flesh._

 _The Hospital_ , borrowing phrases from _Old Earth_ , was like a combination of school and lab (and nursery). Locating it in the mountains had its reasons: civilians wouldn’t peek or poke around too often, fewer questions would be asked, and _The Government_ got to send fancy helicopters to deliver their supplies. (Yeah, Sharon was pretty sure it was a more of a showoff—to differentiate themselves from the _Old Earth’s_ regimes).

It was supervised by _The Government,_ and operated by a bunch of mad scientists— _The Whitecoats_. Their mission (or what they had been telling Sharon and the rest of the tattooed people) was to find the cure to counter-react the Nightwalker’s virus. So they took bits and pieces of the zombies’ DNA (yuck indeed), mixed and matched them up a little bit, then planted them into their contestants’ body. All of the contestants were born and raised in _The Hospital_ , using donated sperms and eggs from volunteers. Lo and behold, _The Whitecoats_ thus had successfully created Marry Sue characters you could only see in fanfiction. Enhanced senses, check. Enhanced strength, check. Higher IQ, check.

Sharon, born in _The Hospital_ , could never shake off a bad vibe about the whole system. That feeling appeared when she reached puberty (her favorite _Old Earth_ song was _Smells Like Teen Spirit,_ by the way), but she knew then she was more than some cynical teenager. Of course, she had issues and insecurities like anybody else, but deep down Sharon knew she was different—

_(Different how? Having trances that are oh-so-pitiful? Wake the fuck up you silly lab rat you are gifted but you are as pathetic as the others)_

—because she believed in freedom and independent thinking, while the others chanted those concepts like mantras, only because _The Whitecoats_ and _The Guardians_ told them to think so.

Oh, Sharon _really_ didn’t like to be told what to do, and maybe that was why she was having such difficult times with Tarja.

After everything Sharon had ever known crashed, instead of being reduced to a damsel in distress, she became quite the leader. Rob and she were the brains of the then-fifteen-person group, Ivar, Ruud and Stephan and the others were the muscle.

So, talk about the new plan, after they went (more like being chased) deep down south to Region 15, to give everyone something to look forward to, Sharon and Robert came up with a little white lie: they fabricated a story about their tattoos. They told the rest of the people, that the meaning behind the tattoos held the key to reverse the apocalyptic situation of the world. Only those in _The Hospital_ knew, the tattoos were only birth years of the blood samples.

The worst thing was, as weeks stretched into months, Sharon could see Robert starting to _believe_ the lie as well. He became to loudest advocate to advertise the idea. He believed, maybe after they comb every one of the regions (all 25 of them, so it was not impossible, but still…), things would go back to normal and better yet, zombies would be destroyed.

So Sharon had to carry the cruel truth by herself. The loneliness hollowed her inside out, making her look ten years older after their journey began.

Then she smelled the wind of change, when a woman in black came to them with a wide-eyed man. They were in _Region 14_ at that time, and it was an urban area filled with shaky buildings and dirty corners for survival; so they were not very surprised that someone came to them for help. Tarja claimed that they were _Old Earth_ ’s people. In Sharon’s observation, the man’s job before _The Reckoning_ must have been something to do with a desk or paperwork. Because the few things that Marcelo seemed to be good at was panic, staring into the void with bewilderment and asking for Tarja’s assistance. It roused everybody’s suspicion when Tarja gave so little about their history, only that they badly wanted to live. Her will to survive was convincing, because to last this long after the _Nightwalkers_ ’ breakout, with a, well, useless companion (husband? Boyfriend?), you needed to be very, very smart and alert 24/7. You also had to know how to fight and hide.

Tarja was clever and fantastically _good_ in hand-to-hand combats. Sharon had to admit (grudgingly), that the mysterious woman was impressive to keep herself (and Marcelo) alive for such a long time.

Sharon remembered, vividly, when she defrosted her own hostility and learned to trust Tarja.

It was an awful situation. Sharon shivered whenever she recalled the bleakness and the despair. They got stuck on the way to _Region 18_ , approximately one week after Tarja and Marcelo joined their then-6-people-crew. The scenario was comically, horribly like _Resident Evil_ : they trapped themselves in an abandoned hospital, where zombies could ambush you whenever, however they like since you were new to the place. The desolate hospital was filled with unfamiliar nooks and crannies, and do you know what you get after you cross human beings with zombie-infested nook and crannies? You get fresh-served meat on a plate for _Nightwalkers_.

Sharon was the one who led the crew on the plate.

She was blinded by the possibility of getting medical supplies, because the number of the wounded had increased from 1 to 3 overnight. As Sharon went in deeper and deeper into that hospital, the rest of her crew followed. Then they started to see empty rooms splattered with blood. No bodies. And you know what that means—something was cleaning (eating) them up. Eventually, they secured themselves in an x-ray imaging room, the only room that had concreted walls instead of glass as barriers.

Tarja, after strongly advising them to _not_ go in at the beginning, threw a period of passive-aggressive silence. When the situation couldn’t get any worse, she finally spoke, proposing the most appalling plan possible: split in half, one group of the wounded as bait, the other ones would take the back door since it’s a shorter route to safety. The weak would have to go through the front door, filled with long, unexpected hallways and rooms full of _Nightwalkers_. The chance for them to survive will be trivial.

Tarja volunteered to be in the bait-group. There were some half-hearted protests, but Sharon had guessed since Marcelo was also one of the heavily-wounded, Tarja would want to keep her companion close.

Overall, it was cruelly effective and inhumane. With a brief, loaded look being exchanged between Sharon and Tarja, the plan was a go. Sharon, Robert, Ruud, and Stefan was en route, ten minutes after Tarja set off with her suicide squad. It went terribly smooth for them since, well, they were _not_ the ones with unhealed, bloody injuries to attract the shark-like zombies. In less than fifteen minutes, they made it to the back door of the facility, encountering only three un-fresh zombies’ drunken attacks.

Dragging their bodies and heavy hearts, Sharon and the rest of the survivors went for the front gate of the hospital. They waited for a couple hours till dawn; Sharon’s heart sank when she confirmed with her crew, that the smell of smoke she had picked up a while ago, was real. But she still refused to give up hope, and she also refused to believe that her new-found, almighty female companion was dead. It was then when Sharon understood how big a sacrifice Tarja had made. Sharon had witnessed the worst of humanity, so she knew if Marcelo truly loved his wife (girlfriend?), he would insist that Tarja stick with the rest of the surviving-group, but all she could remember was how relieved Marcelo was upon hearing that Tarja wished to tag along.

When Sharon felt the air molecules trembling with sunlight and heat, she closed her eyes briefly. She didn’t know how long she had been staring at the front entrance, which had started to be fogged with black smoke. Sharon told herself to wait just for a bit longer, until the house was visibly on fire, at least.

In those dreadful hours before daybreak, as Sharon and the others waited for a miracle, all she could think about was Tarja. The waiting stretched into eternity, and with a chaotic mind, Sharon pondered all over Tarja, and regretted that she didn’t know the woman _at all_.

Then as if the universe was trying to give her some answer, the front gate burst open with blurs of people making their way through. Sharon bolted awake from the sounds, and counted, one, two, three, four. No more, no less. Ivar, Tarja, Marcelo, and Micky.

They all made it, with a theatrical explosion behind like they were in some action hero movie. The house could no longer stomach the fire, spitting shards of hateful glass towards the survivors as its final retaliation.

They helped each other to an area vacant and safe, which was adjacent to the farmlands, the border of _Region 18_. The sunshine was stronger. Covered with blood and sweat, the pungent smoke coming off of the latecomers were not why they were tearing up. Sharon and the others welcomed them, too stunned to say a thing. There was no point to say anything, because a tale was about to be unfolded. A legendary plan, actually.

Overwhelmed with joy and disbelief, they sat under the morning sun and listened to the supposed-to-be-zombie-meals/survivors’ recounting Tarja’s instructions. It turned out, they set fire to draw the Nightwalkers’ attention to unnecessary places, cornered them, then used the air vents above for escape. After confiscating the rest of the ammunition, Tarja had guns in both hands, with three other people following her blindly in the dark. She was all they could trust. The vents were zombie-ridden also, and that was a big problem. But the visions of those undead-creatures were seemingly inferior to their senses of smell; in other words, nothing was more important than food to the Nightwalkers. When zombies came close ahead, Tarja would shoot its ground—if you watched _Aliens_ , you would know all you needed to know about air vents: they were all over the place, surprisingly predictable and easy to blast open. Tarja took care of swarms of zombies by this tactic, sending the bastards down to the fire they set in the aisle. And since air vents were all connected, all they had to do was stick close to one another, watch each other’s back, with someone leading them with the hospital map memorized (that was obviously Tarja’s work also), they would eventually get to the front entrance.

It was a long, long path towards the gate, though.

Sharon had never seen Tarja so exhausted before, but she also saw something else in her eyes. Tarja’s green— _so_ green (why hadn’t Sharon paid attention to Tarja’s eyes before?)—eyes were ablaze with life, and she sat on the ground with an indecipherable expression, staring into the horizon. While the others she rescued pieced up the story of how Tarja saved them, all laughing and cursing with stupidly-wide teary smiles across their puffy faces.

Sharon doubted Tarja remained silent just because she was spent, so she approached the uncharacteristically smaller body, unusually nervous.

“Hey.” Tarja didn’t turn around, nor did she flinch upon Sharon’s tentative hand laying on her shoulder. “Thank you.”  
Tarja angled her head slowly towards Sharon; coping with this proximity, Sharon could see every pore and line on the other woman’s face, as the breeze carried smells of soil, iron, salt and fire beside them. In retrospect, if things were different, the setting could almost be perfect for a kiss to happen—when the heroic protagonists survived the attack, and met their romantic subjects.

Instead, what actually happened, was Sharon catching the heebie-jeebies upon the look in Tarja’s eyes. She looked otherworldly graceful and harrowed in that instant, like a war-goddess, making Sharon want to flee away and get closer at the same time. The strange exaltation was replaced by solemnness when Tarja gave her a faint nod, tying a knot to confirm their status.

 _Allies_.

***

The pain coiled deep in her abdomen, a snake ready to strike; when it did, Tarja’s breath hitched, her mouth falling open to a silent scream. The hot tears felt foreign against the corner of her eyes, then cold as the night air crept into Tarja’s sleeping bag. She waited for the agony to subside, but it hadn’t even climbed to its highest yet. Tarja’s toes cinched together, so did her hands, and then the tight knot in her belly started to give off signs of subsidence. Tarja let out a soundless (or so she thought) breath, her fists slacking into a pair of shaky, slightly calloused hands.

“Nasty period?”

The fright actually made the pain to leave Tarja’s body momentarily. She wiped away the moisture from her face in haste, when a pair of boots scuffled through the grass and pebbly floor. She should have fallen asleep the minute she laid down, but her menstrual problems were bigger this time—one of the most painful ones in her life, truth be told.

Sharon knew Tarja was having trouble sleeping; her breaths had been erratic for the past 30 minutes and if Sharon focused hard enough (which she did, unabashedly), she could smell blood. It took a woman to know a woman, and the math wasn’t hard: Tarja was having her monthly situation; Sharon had known that since they were walking north along the river today. Tarja didn’t inquire much about Sharon’s proposal: they would cross the river by traveling upstream, where the width of it would be narrower. Sharon had suspected that there was something wrong with the shorter woman, since Tarja was usually antagonizing.

Sharon knew Tarja hated to show her weakness, and unless Tarja wanted to be helped, she wasn’t going to make any difference.

Previously sleeping on her side (so she wouldn’t face Sharon) with her knees hugged to her chest, Tarja willed herself to turn to the zipper. She answered Sharon’s question by pursing her lips, and started to unzip the sleeping bag. The mass of air hit her heated body like a wall of liquid ice. Pulling herself out of the warmth was excruciating but necessary.

“You ok?”

Sharon walked closer. In her night vision, there are patches of red on Tarja’s cheek, the rest of her shimmery face abandoned in a wan, sick hue.

“I’m fine.”

The words were ushered out with an excessive outtake of breath. Sharon frowned as Tarja slowly fixed herself into a sit upright.

“But you don’t look fine.” Sharon pushed. Tarja’s breath is in a short, painful pattern. “Why don’t you just take some painkillers?”

Sharon meant well, but that particular question still set off the defense mechanism in Tarja. She scowled, “I don’t want to.”

Sharon frowned and turned away. Tarja was shocked at her own disappointment when the other woman gave up so quickly. But again, Tarja had always been the direct opposite of an attention-seeker.

She was wrong about Sharon though; of course the nosy woman with a heart of gold wasn’t going to quit that easily. With Tarja’s heavy stare on her back, Sharon was persistent at digging up something from her bag. She remembered there were some baby aspirins somewhere, which sounded just perfect for soothing cramps.

“Please.” Tarja said gruffly, the anguish hidden cutting Sharon’s movements into a halt. “I said I don’t want any pills.”

“Why not?”

Tarja closed her eyes with a gulp. With a watchful eye, Sharon reached for the bottle of water instead, when visibly Tarja’s round, small shoulders sagged like she was folding inward, making herself as small and harmless as possible.

When Tarja opened her eyes, Sharon was already squatting at a clear ground next to her, a canteen in her hand, a hopeful expression making her eyes gleam when she handed Tarja the water. Tarja’s eyes had gradually gotten used to the dark, and in the insufficient light, Sharon’s features were all blurred together. _She can be whoever she wants her to be_ , Tarja realized. So against her better judgments, Tarja muttered _thanks_ as she took the water. The cold liquid splashed her pallet, cleaning the thick, metallic taste of saliva that had been accumulating in Tarja’s mouth. She swallowed the water after it was lukewarm; she couldn’t risk taking any over-stimulation for her sensitive stomach.

“I was an addict.”

She admitted flatly, not meeting Sharon’s eyes. There was no point of hiding anymore, not when they were all gonna die soon, when there was actually no end to this journey. Oh yeah, there was that one particular conversation with Robert, and Tarja was smart enough to put the pieces together. The tattoo story was a farce they made up for the crew to feel better, and now the two of them were all that was left, so there was no reason to pretend.

Except that they were still pretending for their prides’ sake.

Tarja could almost taste Sharon’s hesitation in the air, which was now charged with strange anticipation. _Is this a heart-to-heart or simply using each other? Is this worth it?_ It was an untapped ground, and both of them had been out of the game for too long. Or maybe they had never played before—the game of survival was rigged with all the zombies and the ill-intentioned humans out-numbering them, and they couldn’t do shit.

That powerlessness and anger spiked something within Tarja. She aimed her gaze at Sharon, one last attempt for some sort of assurance. Sharon’s curiosity towards her was something Tarja secretly enjoyed; from tolerating the taller woman as leader, to accepting her as an ally, then regarding Sharon as someone close to a friendly figure, was never Tarja’s intention. Again, after that conversation with Rob (the one Sharon probably didn’t know about), a fact had dawned on Tarja: she wanted to _protect_ Sharon. It was more of an instinct, something old in Tarja’s blood, that she wanted to preserve naïveté and innocence before it was corrupt by reality.

No matter if that kindness sometimes made Sharon’s actions cruel, such as now.

“You don’t strike me as an addict. Correct me if I am wrong, but…” Sharon took an audible breath, but seemed to change her mind at the last second, “Sorry, what I meant to ask was, are you still addicted to painkillers?”

“I was also an alcoholic. If you want to put a name on all the substances that could kill pain, that is.” Tarja said matter-of-factly, reaching for her oversized down jacket and throwing them on. Sharon’s eyes tracked her every movement, “And no, I don’t know if I am still an addict or not.”

With the clouds creeping away from the front of the moon, it shone high and mighty with all its splendor in the sky. Tarja didn’t have to look in Sharon’s direction to know that the other woman was staring at her with big, worried eyes. Tarja hadn’t felt so naked in a very long time (in a literary sense, of course; she had been completely naked this morning in front of Sharon), and she was irritated at her own sentiment, that she wanted to be vulnerable since _goddamnit_ , being a woman, she was _entitled_ to be weak at least _once a month_.

Tarja was wary, that was all. She was tired of the absence of a shoulder to lean on. She was tired of guessing what was on Sharon’s mind, and how to protect herself from being seen through.

“I don’t like to see you in pain.” Tarja raised a brow and fixed her gaze on Sharon. She was expecting some sort of follow-up-question. Sharon was musing, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Tarja waited for her to finish her statement that came out of the blue. “It makes you so far away, even more distant than usual.”

Tarja didn’t know how or what to think of that. Sharon caught her completely off-guard. After a period of silence, she stood up.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking my shift.”

“You should rest! Especially when you are, you know…” She trailed off when Tarja’s gaze fell sharp on her. Sharon didn’t waver. Their wordless stare lasted longer than they had intended, warming up the moment into another unfamiliar zone. Sharon finally ventured, “Could you sit down for a bit?” Tarja pinched her brows together. Sharon implored with urgency in her voice, a softer tone that Tarja never thought she’d be the receiving end of it, “Please?”

Tarja obliged, with _what-the-fuck_ written all over her face. Sharon didn’t blame her when she knelt beside Tarja, reached her good leg (Tarja’s left ankle was still swollen), and started to roll the hem of the fabric up.

“What are you doing?”

“Have you heard of acupoints?”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t buy any of that shit. Are you saying that you’re going to jab me now with some hidden chopsticks?”

Sharon smirked at Tarja’s usual act of defiance. Relieved, she shook her head at Tarja’s bold insinuation, while finding a particular spot on Tarja’s inner ankle bone. “Just gonna acupressure you a little bit, sorry to disappoint. And do I look like someone who would take advantage of a woman unarmed?”

“You made some good ogling when I was completely naked by the river today.”

Biting her tongue, Sharon grinned cheekily. And _bingo_ , she found the spot behind Tarja’s shinbone.

“I was merely appreciating another excellent female form. You know, I don’t exactly have college to go to for my experimental phase.” Sharon wriggled her brows, although she meant everything she said. Tarja appeared to be appalled at the idea; her cheeks darkened by blush. “I want to tell you more about my sexual phases, but unfortunately, I have to finish what I came for.”

“Fuck!”

Tarja hissed when Sharon pressed down _hard_ at a random point on her shin, and it was more painful than Tarja anticipated. Instinctively, she wanted to free her leg from Sharon’s grip, but she was stronger.

“Ah ah ah, not done with you yet.”

Tarja was wondering if this was all a joke, when Sharon was being all sickly-sweet on her. She seemed to be enjoying Tarja’s expression, and she darted her eyes away when the predatory look on Sharon’s face spurred a kind of flurry inside of her. A kind that…Tarja would pinpoint it as _shyness_. _Oh fuck, now? Tarja Turunen, you are better than this._ Tarja absentmindedly berated herself.

“It’s called the Sanyinjiao point.” Sharon explained, as she continued to massage the spot with gentler squeezes. Tarja let out a breath as Sharon carried on breezily, “According to the old Chinese medicine, it helps relax the cervix, thus reducing menstrual cramps. It’s about four fingers’ width above your ankle, so you know. Next time, you do it yourself. Don’t beg me to do this for you again.”

Sharon said jovially, though her eyes were tender enough for Tarja to force her comments back. She heard about this technique before, and she knew that putting pressure on the base of your thumb and index finger, was supposed to relieve the pain.

_But nothing was better when you could just have a glass and a bottle of tranquilizers, right?_

“What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?” Seeing the Finn’s eyes dimming into aloofness, Sharon leaned forward and straightened her posture, “I admit that you shouldn’t be hurting with acupressuring—”

“You know nothing about my pain.” Sharon stopped and withdrew her hands as if Tarja burned her. Expressionless, Tarja stared at Sharon levelly, “What were you saying earlier? That you hate to see me in pain? But you know nothing about me. Absolutely _nothing_.”

Tarja smiled all of a sudden, an unpleasant one, like a black rose blooming in the center of a dead body. It gave Sharon goosebumps.

“I am sorry if I am being too direct. But that’s the truth.”

Tarja severed their gaze, and started to roll down her pants unhurriedly. Sharon took her cue well. Standing up stiffly, something tugged at her heart that made her want to cry, but she couldn’t.

_The sad truth is, truth is sad._

“But thank you for the rub.” Sharon’s heart missed a beat when Tarja muttered. She didn’t turn to look at Tarja—she was afraid of getting hurt—while flattening out her sleeping bag. “Though I highly suspect now, that the Chinese methods are all just clever distractions to manage pain.”

“Well, at least it works for you.”

“Hmmm.” The tension in the air diffused in Sharon’s imagination. Her mind was sharp but her body was too tired. Just _what kind of emotional-rollercoaster happened between them?_ “I think it’s you telling experimental phase that did the trick.”

Sharon chuckled in her sleeping bag, now all tugged in. She gazed upon Tarja’s face, and found something softening there. Perhaps she was guilty. Maybe Tarja was feeling bad for shutting Sharon out. But it was hardly the first time she did that.

“I’d tell you more of that if you like.”

“Shut up and sleep, would you?”

Sharon shifted to lie on her side so that Tarja couldn’t see her face. Silently preparing the about-to-fall-asleep slur, Sharon spoke in her drunken murmur, “You look hot by the way, when you’re naked.”

Then she stayed quiet and listened to another set of heartbeats. Sharon smirked when she heard the acceleration of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guerrilla warfare/tactics: they are military tactics including ambushes, sabotage, raids, small warfare, hit-and-run tactics, and mobility, to fight a larger and less-mobile traditional military.  
> Ah, and if you caught the music references, I'm going to die a happy girl.


	6. The bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon was kissing Tarja hard to shut her up. Her gut told her it would be effective. It did.  
> Let’s backtrack to when Tarja was dead. Spoil alert: she came back not entirely alive.

She's in love with herself

She likes the dark

On her milk white neck

The Devil's mark

It's all Hallows Eve

The moon is full

Will she trick or treat

I bet she will

_—Type O Negative_

Tarja was staring up the ill-lit sky, her green eyes unfocused as if they were spewing silent accusations at Sharon.

_Fuck. It’s all my fault._

Sharon’s hands shook as she stared down at her soon-to-die companion. She couldn’t tell if it was her head spinning, or her vision swimming that caused her to want to throw up again. Crouching next to the river, Sharon went over her options, gulping for air. The sound of water assaulted her numb ears. Everything was ironically peaceful.

This was bound to happen and they both knew it. No matter how good they work as a team, the two of them simply weren’t enough. All it took was rotten luck and a moment of sloppiness—in this case, Sharon dozing off on her shift—to reduce the crew of two into one.

Sharon was roused from Tarja’s shriek, and fully awake when she was greeted with the most nightmarish sight: Tarja pressing on her bleeding neck, stoic, saying something unintelligible, then collapsed, blood gushing out of her wound. Sharon jumped to her feet, finding the dead zombie beside Tarja with its mouth wide open, muscle tissues stuck in its teeth. She threw up for the first time (luckily, not on Tarja). The second time she threw up, she was carrying Tarja on her back, crossing the forest as fast as possible to get to the river. The metallic odor of Tarja’s blood was so thick that it triggered a series of Sharon’s “episodes”. The only way to put a stop to her _trances_ was to stop and retch into a nearby bush.

Sharon dropped and sprawled Tarja’s small body on the riverbank, dismantled the makeshift bandage on her wound, and that was the third time she threw up, this time more for panic’s sake. There was no way Tarja could survive this. A big chunk went missing from the right side of Tarja’s neck, and she was barely breathing. Tarja’s chest was still heaving. She was dying slowly second by second. Sharon couldn’t remember how many times she said _you’re going to be fine_ or _I’m sorry_ or _Tarja don’t you dare fall asleep_.

Sharon wanted to put an end to her misery, but there got to be another way.

She sprinted back to their camp, the trigs cutting her face but the pain was lost to her. She grabbed the blood transfusion kit and a handgun. On her way to Tarja she vaguely registered she was out of breath. The searing sensations bursting from her lungs, constraining her chest, were slowing down her movements. Sharon couldn’t afford to rest. She was competing against time.

“Fuck. C’mon you motherfucker.”

Sharon growled as she slapped her forearm, impatient for the veins to appear. Tarja couldn’t look paler when Sharon finally thrust the needle in her own wrist first. She was o neg, and she had done vein-to-vein before, only with Robert. Except that he still died. If Tarja was not about to die, she would definitely put up a big protest about direct transfusion. There was a reason Sharon shouldn’t be giving her blood to Tarja—she was from _The Hospital_ and her system was different. Her blood would be poison for the rest of the un-tattooed. Sharon was playing Russian roulette, as she jammed the other point into Tarja’s wrist. Her lids twitched, now too weak to afford the strength to blink.

Sharon called for Tarja. No response. Sharon’s blood moved sluggishly in the tube, and she contemplated briefly that maybe if she raised her arm higher, the gravity would suck her blood quicker towards Tarja? She quickly put that ludicrous thought away. She was never good at _Physics_.

“Tarja, I think there’s a good chance that…fuck.” Sharon bit her lip and muttered wryly, “What the fuck am I doing? This is ridiculous. But I am still going to say this anyway, in case you can still hear me.” She listened to the fading heartbeats, muffling a scream that was ripping from her throat. _Fuck, this can’t be happening._

“I want to say thank you for everything. I know a lotta times I said that I don’t need you to take care of me, but the truth is who am I kidding? I fucking _need_ you, Tarja. And fuck me for still not knowing your last name at this point.”

Sharon exhaled shakily. Her adrenaline had officially run out. She was so, so tired. Her legs were sore, and her null body was slick with perspiration. She wanted to lie down beside Tarja for just a second, but to keep the blood transfusion work, she had to keep her hand at a higher level. Sharon set her jaw, and maneuvered until she could slump cross-legged facing Tarja’s side. The Finn’s expression was slack, but there was moisture accumulating on the corner of her eye. _Maybe it is sweat_ , Sharon wondered, _is she crying?_

“I guess I am going to miss you a lot if you were gone.” She said gruffly, her fingers tender as she swept the hair sticking on Tarja’s face away. Sharon gathered Tarja’s locks of black hair and combed it with extra care, no longer catching the absurdity. Tarja looked beautiful and ghoulish, her thin lips void of color, the green fire in her eyes dimming. Sharon swallowed thickly, “You know, in case you wonder, I like you a lot. Really a lot. You have become more than a friend to me. You become like a family, believe it or not.” She rambled, her vision hazy although the sun was climbing higher and higher, its light mocking their shadowy predicament.

“And I am not saying this just because I want to feel better at myself. You…you are an enigma, and I wish if things were different, if I could go back in time, I would want to get to know more of you, like how you get those tattoos, or why were you an addict, things like that. If I could do it all over again I will drop my stupid ego.”

Sharon husked, fat tears dripping from her face to the fabric of Tarja’s turtleneck.

When there were no more heartbeats but her own, Sharon closed Tarja’s lids. She could feel the air humming warmer as the sun climbed higher still.

“But I guess there are no more chances for that, huh?”

Feeling that a big part of her had died with Tarja, Sharon pulled out the needle from Tarja’s alabaster wrist, and pressed a gentle kiss upon Tarja’s forehead. When she tried to get up, the motions caused sudden dizziness so Sharon shut her eyes and sat down again, waiting for the floating stars in her vision to go away.

But the darkness felt so good. And she was also really tired. Maybe dying wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Dying with Tarja wouldn’t be so bad at all.

She collapsed upon the dead body. The corpse was still warm, but certainly not for long.

***

Tarja had a long, strange dream.

It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She hadn’t had this kind of luxury for a while.

She saw when she was still a kid, hunting in the artificial forest with her mother. The natural forest in Finland was long replaced. She saw her younger self, no more than 25, in police uniform and was still on duty, patrolling the streets of _Region 14_ of _New Earth,_ occasionally chasing those exceeding the speed limits. One day a rich, handsome man approached her with a bouquet of flowers, then later she learned his name was Marcelo. It was a stupid cliché, but sweet enough for Tarja to fall in love. But it was so plastic…it wasn’t right. Tarja thought she was on a mission. A dangerous one that required her to stay incognito. Oh yes, she was shot. Shot with a bullet first, and then a syringe of something while she was lying in a lab, a room so much cleaner than the places she went on missions to. _What mission?_ Why were they keeping her alive? People who refused the rule of _The Government_ were supposed to be executed on sight. Tarja couldn’t remember because her dream was evolving into the next stage. Or maybe she was wrong about all of it, now that she was pregnant with a daughter.

_Naomi_.

Her heart warmed at that. Marcelo and she had decided to name their girl Naomi. She got a tattoo because of her daughter, but even with their newborn Marcelo still cheated on her. Tarja slept with some guy in a bar called Tuomas for retaliation. They became friends and even got a pair of tattoos after they went to some metal concert featuring some Dutch band…no wait. There was no concert. It couldn’t be. Tarja was beyond confused since concerts only existed in _Old Earth_. Her consciousness started to play tug-of-war with her dream, but then her dream showed her dying Naomi in her arms, breaking away Tarja’s resolutions. Yes, her daughter was why she “retired” from being a cop in the first place. She needed to be Marcelo’s good wife, staying at home to take care of the baby while the husband slaved away to bring food on the table. Tarja had imagined his mistress giving him blowjobs under his desk. _Hi honey, I am not coming home tonight, you know, business. Sorry. I love you._ Business my ass, Tarja thought, her anger coaxing her to see the last bit of her dream.

The reason why she stayed to take care of his husband, was because he was the reminder of her humanity, because he bore the resemblance of Naomi. But then he died. Someone else evoked the last bit of tenderness inside of Tarja. A woman. She made Tarja feel warm, even if she was incredibly childish and impulsive. Tarja felt drawn toward her, but she couldn’t get too close. She might hurt her. Tarja was so frustrated. More frustrated than dreaming this dream, where a lot of things didn’t go with her memory. _Something must be terribly wrong_ , Tarja thought. More wrong than when her neck was torn open, and she trusted Sharon so much that she thought she would do her job at protecting her. But she didn’t blame her; she needed to kill the Nightwalker before it harmed Sharon.

Ok, so _Sharon_ was the one that Tarja felt obliged to protect. _Why_?

Tarja remembered it all now, how and why she loved the woman in a weird, desperate way, and that she actually cried when Sharon said goodbye to her. She wanted to look at Sharon in the eye, but the darkness prevented her from seeing a goddamn thing. She started to struggle, but it was like the worst sleep paralysis she had ever encountered. Her chest felt heavy. She couldn’t breathe. Oh but wait, _that_ was what Tarja had been feeling strange about after she regained consciousness— _oxygen_. Why was she still alive if she had not been breathing?

She counted from one Mississippi to forty Mississippi. Then after Tarja had counted enough Mississippis to cover the entire earth, she realized something that if her heart was still beating, it would probably miss a beat.

_Why the fuck am I not breathing?_

Tarja’s lids fluttered in panic. She struggled, feeling like her whole body was instilled with lead. Her limbs refused to cooperate. Other than that, the lack of pain was also a strange sensation to Tarja. She could no longer feel the ache pulsing from her swelling ankle, nor of her neck that was bitten, no doubt being taken a huge chunk off of. It was supposed to be a good thing, getting rid of the gnawing pain. _Or am I actually dead?_

The world around her was taking its time at revealing itself. Lights were penetrating Tarja’s lids. She could see the swirling patterns of colors; her numb skin had started to itch and burn under the sunlight.

Something was thundering regularly beside Tarja, its rhythm sounded vaguely like heartbeats. A heavy thing was draped across her chest. Someone else’s breath was tickling the crook of her neck. Warmth was spreading to reach her numb skin, and the feel of the fabric and skin made Tarja think deliriously, that it was Sharon who was sleeping next to her. Rage kindled within Tarja after she found that, she was actually so glad and comforted because of Sharon’s presence.

But Sharon should have been smarter than this. Tarja unconsciously gritted her teeth. How could Sharon fell asleep when she could turn into a zombie and attack her! What the fuck was Sharon thinking about!

With that, Tarja snapped open her eyes.

The brightness caused her to narrow her eyes instinctively. Something was making her nose itch, so she raised her hand to sweep it—Sharon’s hair, probably—away. Tarja realized they were lying beside the river, but she didn’t know when the stream could sound so loud and irritable to her ears. Her senses felt so unfamiliar, that was why. Everything was so acute. The colors in her vision were more vibrant than ever; she’d never known so many shades of green and brown after she glanced at the forest. Maybe she passed out for too long, so her body was overwhelmed. Tarja turned her head around experimentally, testing her muscles. A particular part was extremely sore like it was bruised.

She touched the gash on the right side of her neck.

“Jesus!”

Tarja muttered, more abhorred than feeling pain. That zombie really ripped a large mass out of her. She touched the jagged sinew of the wound, her fingertips feeling every edge and lump. Tarja could tell that the gash was closed up with a layer of scab. Why? She was supposed to die from the bleed and infection. She was supposed to be one of _them_ now.

She sat up, and found the plastic tubes dangling from Sharon’s forearm. A needlepoint was still buried in her wrist, with the pinkish residual of someone’s blood in the tube. Sharon saved her with her blood? But that still didn’t make sense. Tarja furrowed her brows, and quickly detached the blood transfusion kit from Sharon. Her skin already healed around the tool, so with the movement, Sharon stirred and started to bleed.

That was when Tarja’s gaze got caught by the trickling blood. She stared at it, realizing her sense of smell was entirely dominated with the metallic, salty scent. Tarja licked her lips, and screwed her nose together at her odd reaction. _What, now I’m a fucking vampire or something?_ She swiped her finger upon the blood, and put it in her dry mouth just for sure. Well, the taste of it was tolerable, not _sweet and breathtaking_ like the fantasy erotica would say.

But as Tarja immersed herself in the taste, she found the saliva started to produce itself in her mouth. Uh oh. Maybe it was just some sort of kneejerk reaction when you ate something salty. Tarja didn’t like anything of this, nor did she like where this was going when Sharon rubbed her own wrist, moaned a little, and blinked groggily.

Her gaze inevitably found Tarja, and her eyes widened into saucers. Tarja opened her mouth to say something, but found her mouth still too dry. She cleared her throat but Sharon had already flung herself on her.

“You’re alive, Tarja! You are fucking alive!” She laughed, gathering Tarja with a hug that was more forceful than she anticipated. Sharon felt so warm and soft. She reciprocated with hesitation, wondering why the hell she started to notice how _good_ Sharon smelled. “How? I closed your eyes for fuck sake! I thought you died!”

She released Tarja from her vice-like grip, wild, searching her eyes like they were some star-crossed lovers meeting one another when one of them was supposed to perish.

“Sharon.” Tarja managed. Her voice was crispy and weak, like it was about to crack. Her throat was tight with an odd burn, “I think you should stay away. Something…something’s wrong with me.”

Alarmed, Sharon stayed silent with her mouth slightly parted. Tarja’s eyes flickered downward at her pink, dewy lips, captured by the flaming red there. Then she found the pulse visible on Sharon’s neck, in unison with the _lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub_ of her heart. The scent of Sharon made her mouth water and Tarja didn’t know why. She set her jaw before reconnecting their gaze, and Sharon was staring at her with a startled, excited look. Her pupils were dilated, and there was a blush that had made its way up her cheeks.

“Tarja? Why are you looking at me like this?” Tarja shook her head with a grimace, unable to answer Sharon. “Was it because the things I said when you were, you know, dying?”

“I remember you saying goodbye to me.” Sharon was turning sheepish and awkward, Tarja realized, but she continued with all the weird things happening to her body, “But I can’t remember any of that now. I was rather…unconscious. What did you say to me?”

“Well…” Sharon looked away, collecting the transfusion kit with a funny look. She seemed both disappointed and relieved, as far as Tarja could tell, “When I thought you were dead, about to be dead, I mean, I kinda said a lot of stupid things that, um, you don’t really have to hear. Oh! I did say that I want to know your full name.”

“Since I am alive now…” Amused, Tarja squirmed into a better position, shifting her leg until she could roll up the edge of her pants. She wanted to check if her left ankle was safe to put pressure on, “You still want to know that?”

“Of course! Oh crap, it healed!”

Tarja stared at her own unblemished leg.

“Tarja Soile Susanna Turunen-Cabuli. No, scrap the Cabuli part. My husband is dead.”

She muttered. Sharon gave her some absentminded nods before she leaned forward, inspecting the wound on Tarja’s neck.

“Tarja Soile Susanna Turunen.”

Sharon repeated softly, her pronunciation completely wrong. Her breath fell upon Tarja’s skin like ticklish feathers. It made Tarja’s immobile heart jump. Just once, though.

Sharon inched away little by little. _It’s about time she knows what’s wrong._

“What the bloody hell? Why is your heart not beating! And you are not breathing as well!”

Tarja breathed in before she gave a proper sigh. Maybe she knew how to be a zombie after all.

***

Sharon was kissing Tarja hard to shut her up. Her gut told her it would be effective. It did.

Let’s backtrack to when Tarja was dead. Spoil alert: she came back _not_ entirely alive.

Neither of them liked any of the Tarja’s new bodily developments, even if Sharon was really happy she Tarja was “back”. Tarja always preferred to be in control, but now her own body refused to obey; her senses were all weird, making her nerves frailer than before. She found herself scared at her own temper and impulses. Tarja could be still, but now she would easily get distracted. She was not breathing yet she was alive and walking. Her heart rarely jumped, and she had yet to find what would make her heart beat.

Overall, Tarja was constantly monitoring herself, because she was afraid of what she’d do next. Yeah, she could fall into a high fever, turn into a Nightwalker and attack Sharon. Or she could also die anytime, according to Sharon’s smartass-theory: Sharon’s blood was something of a mixture/mutation of Nightwalkers’ bacteria (virus? Tarja was not interested in those disgusting details) and human’s blood. When it was injected into Tarja’s dying body, it must have some chemical reactions with Tarja’s infected blood. Now, in their best guess, Sharon’s blood was keeping Tarja alive and conscious.

The rest was beyond their comprehension.

It was not like Tarja had become more barbaric. But in some way it was. She couldn’t say anything for herself when she accidentally ate a rabbit raw.

It was sometime near the evening, about an hour before they set camp. They were still walking upstream, and by tomorrow the would reach the border of Region 10 and 21.

The burn in Tarja’s throat had been escalating, from a dull ache she could ignore, to a point where she was so on edge, that she started to use all kinds of methods. From rubbing her throat to slapping herself. Sharon was needleless to say, very, _very_ concerned, but she knew she had to stay at a distance from Tarja. She smelled different after she came back to life; since Sharon didn’t want to be a pervert, she wasn’t really analyzing how exactly Tarja smelled pre-Nightwalker-bitten. Now Tarja’s scent turned fainter, tinted with an earthy tone (not just because they were walking in a forest). She didn’t smell dead or rotten per se, but Sharon preferred times when Tarja was warmer. Safer. Now Tarja looked like a predator that could eat Sharon up (no pun intended).

Eyes trailing every twitch and strange actions from Tarja, Sharon dreaded about losing Tarja again.

Tarja stopped dead in her tracks. Sharon remained her ground in alarm. The Finn jerked her head in a particular direction in the woods. After some concentration Sharon could also hear the rustling of the grass. Before her ears and other senses could tell what caused the kerfuffle, Tarja aimed a dagger at the shrubs. Her quick motions turned out to be unbelievably precise. After Tarja hurried off to her target, Sharon could see it was a hare she hit. Tarja crouched by the dying animal, pulled the dagger free and stared at it with an intense expression.

Before Sharon wanted to offer some congratulation that, they would be having some fresh meat for dinner, Tarja sank her teeth into the rabbit.

Sharon yelped, too shocked to be disgusted at the scene. Tarja appeared to be in a trance, so deep that Sharon’s exclamation didn’t stop her from the twisted act.

“Tarja!” Sharon called, inching towards Tarja. She was no longer just sucking the blood out of the poor creature; she was _munching_ on it. Sharon had reached her own vomit-quota for today, and her stomach was too weak to take another fit of puking. She forced the bile down, and walked closer still, “Hey, what the fuck?”

“Don’t!” Tarja raised a bloodied hand at Sharon’s direction, not yet looking at her, voice hoarse and unsteady, “Don’t come any closer.”

Only three steps in front of Tarja, Sharon strangely missed when Tarja used to have that gentle rise-and-fall of her chest when she breathed. Now, Tarja was just a bundle of frigid, cold being, like a machine and distant more than ever. The untimely sentiment made Sharon’s eyes water, and she blinked the tears out so she could wipe it gone. Tarja’s head slowly raised to her direction. With her hands and mouth crimson red, a dead animal in her grasp, Tarja had never looked more… _lost_. Her eyes were unfocused and all Sharon could see in those bottomless greens were loneliness. Or, perhaps Sharon was projecting a little too much of her own feelings to interpret Tarja’s expression.

Tarja swallowed visibly, her fingers slacking around the hare; it fell to the forest floor with a soft _thump_.

“I am sorry.”

It was barely louder than a whisper. Not waiting for a response, Tarja stood up in a “whoosh” and ran to the river. By the time Sharon caught up with her, blood was already gone from her frame. Her face was now clean and shiny with water. Rinsing her mouth while rubbing and scrubbing her fingers, she looked like she would kill to have a different pair of hands.

Sharon closed their distance until they were one foot apart.

“I told you to stay away…for once why don’t you just listen, Sharon?”

Grating her teeth together, Tarja’s voice trembled. The harsh lines on her face manifested themselves when the sun was setting on the other side. It was going to get too dark for them to set up camp if they didn’t hurry.

Oddly calm, Sharon reached for Tarja’s hands in the water. They were as cold as the river, but just as soft. With the touch, Sharon successfully paused Tarja’s neurotic movements. Tarja’s tense shoulder drooped when Sharon held both her hands tight.

“You won’t hurt me.” Tarja still made no attempt at connecting their gaze. Sharon gave her a firm squeeze before she pulled their hands out of water. She tilted Tarja’s chin to her direction, “I trust you.”

“You’re stupid to do that. And I was stupid to trust you in the first place.” Tarja’s bottom lip trembled, a poignant expression taking over her face, “You should have let me die.”

“You don’t mean that. And I would never, _ever_ leave you to die.” Tone soft, Sharon was nowhere near mad. She stroked Tarja’s strong jawline. Her eyes were reddening, and she was looking at anywhere but Sharon. Tarja was never this vulnerable in front of her. “You don’t have to be sorry at anything. Everything is on me.”

Tarja shifted free from Sharon, a line of tears running across her cheek. Sharon dazed at the dewy moisture, glowing in the setting sun; _zombies don’t cry. Tarja is as human as she can be._

She stood up, and Sharon imagined it must be exhausting Tarja’s energy. Her face looked waxen, but her expression was resolute when she reached for the gun from her belt. As soon as she looked into Sharon’s eyes, she understood what Tarja was about to ask her to do.

“No!” Tarja held the muzzle of the gun and handed it to Sharon, “No. Fuck no Tarja. We…there must be some other ways to do this. We can go to _The Hospital_! I am familiar with that place and with a few more days we can reach there. It’s in the north! I can gain access to its database once we reach the main computer room, and we can…we will surely find other solutions to…to your conditions—”

“Sharon, please.”

“No! No, I won’t kill you just because…because you _think_ you are going to turn! I…I can give you more of my blood!”

Tarja didn’t look away, nor was she listening to the other woman. Her hand found the handle of the handgun, then her trigger-finger snuck into the loop; she was ready, like every time she had the chance to fire a gun. Sharon’s heart was jumping to her throat. When the determination on Tarja’s face didn’t waver, Sharon realized it was going to be a contest of speed and skill. The “click” that indicated the removal of the safety was Sharon’s cue.

The erupting gunshot scared a flock of birds to escape to the purple sky. The sound echoed, ringing in the women’s ears and freezing them into two pale statues. The weapon was partly guilty for the loud turbulence, but the one who pulled the trigger was whom to be held responsible.

No one was shot.

Sharon pried the device out of Tarja’s stiffened fingers, emptied the magazine, then dropped the items onto the ground with muffled clatters. Anger flushed into Tarja’s eyes, then relief, then still something else, altogether too complicated for Sharon to decipher. Sharon wanted to follow her heart; she wanted to throw caution in the wind, no matter how dangerous it’d be.

“Sharon, I could’ve shot you! What are you thinking then? Can’t you just let me…”

Tarja’s lips were moving, Sharon noticed. If she could stop those lips from moving she could stop the noises, then maybe she could put a stop to this all. So before Sharon knew what she was doing, she was pressing herself onto Tarja.

Sharon was kissing Tarja hard to shut her up. Her gut told her it would be effective. It did.


	7. The lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I heard that you said you need me. And that you like me a lot.”  
> Sharon blinked. Crap. Tarja was not as dead as she thought.

Walk the dark path

Sleep with angels

Call the past for help

Touch me with your love

And reveal to me my true name

_—Nightwish_

The syringe’s plastic body read it had 10 ml of volume. Its long needle was heated by the skin it had punctured, then the blood that floated though, instilling into the half-filled cylinder. The pump was carefully dragged outward by a brunet. Her brows were knotted in concentration. She wasn’t afraid of the needle in her skin, because her previous lifestyle was filled with blood tests.

The other woman was not. Although the Finn’s complexion had been very pale for more than 12 hours, now her face looked grayish. After the brown eyes found the greens, Sharon realized that Tarja was actually afraid of needles.

“I remember there was a girl in The Hospital who was absolutely terrified at this.” Sharon raised the syringe, now full with her blood, “She was not in my unit, but whenever we needed to get blood tests, her fights and screams would get so loud that in the end, The Whitecoats had to put her down.”

“Seriously?”

Tarja knew Sharon was attempting at a conversation, so they wouldn’t have to think about this evening. She could still feel Sharon’s lips on hers. If Tarja just listened to her animalistic instinct, the kiss felt good.

Sharon had definitely reached her purpose—distracting Tarja from killing herself.

“Yeah. At that time we were still small, Robert and I. They went from unit to unit to showcase the girl’s death, saying that if we don’t follow their orders, that’s what we’ll get.”

“What kind of fucked-up education was that?”

“Dunno. And I’m pretty sure that was exclusive news you just heard. The Government won’t be too thrilled if people know about that.”

“No doubt.”

Tarja rolled her sleeve up for Sharon. They agreed to the blood transfusion; it was more of a compromise for Tarja. If she was going to turn, Sharon saw no harm at trying other ways to keep her human longer.

“Your eyes are really beautiful.”

Tarja forgot to flinch when the sharp metal point penetrated her forearm. She glared at Sharon, who was now thrusting the pump, pressuring her blood to enter Tarja’s vein.

“You need to stop distracting me with those…with the—”

“Flirting?” Sharon smirked lopsidedly, still focused on her task. She didn’t want to accidentally inject air bubbles, “Bear with me. I am in my experimental phase.” Tarja rolled her eyes. Sharon continued with glee, “I am not the one who initiated it, though.”

“ _What_?”

Sharon drew the needle out, and again, Tarja was rather busy with being annoyed. Then she was more irritated with the sting.

“ _You_ are, remember? When you helped with my shoulder?” Sharon grabbed a nibble of alcohol-sanitized fabric, and pressed it against Tarja’s bleeding wrist, “You said my eyes look beautiful, then you did that awesome Kung-Fu thing to un-dislocate my shoulder.”

“It was for a diversion!” Tarja swatted Sharon’s hand away, then pressed her hand hard against the bleed herself. Now that she recounted her actions, it was rather odd for her to say such cheesy things to Sharon. “I am not a…”

She trailed off. She was supposed to say _lesbian_ when suddenly someone from her past flashed by her head. A woman with flaming red hair under her. And on top of her. But those fragments of memory flickered out, replaced by peaceful visuals of her younger self going to school, studious in every class, dating a boy who was exactly her age.

Now, what the hell? The timelines of her past were all messed up after she came back from her coma.

“You’re not a what?” Sharon frowned, mirroring Tarja’s confusion, “Hey, you all right?”

“It’s just…”

Tarja couldn’t. She closed her eyes. The sides of her head were aching. It was the kind of pain she knew very well. It was her withdrawal-headache. She was bone-dry on alcohol and void of any medication (well, if you count out the aspirin she took for her ankle) for over a hundred days. She thought her withdrawal syndromes ought to leave her be by now. Or maybe something in her memory had triggered the sensation. It was not entirely unpleasant, if being honest. It reminded Tarja of her older days, where numbness was allowed.

“Something doesn’t make sense, ok?” Tarja snapped, surprising herself for saying it out loud. She told Sharon how her body felt different after her blackout, sure, but nothing about her _being_. Tarja never needed a fucking psychotherapist. “I…when I was dying, or dead, to be exact,” Tarja continued dryly, “I saw things. My past, all boxed up in a weird dream. I saw events that I never experienced, as if my memories belonged to another person.”

Sharon was looking at her under her long lashes, bemused but trustful. She shifted suddenly to move closer. Tarja jumped and tried to back away. Sharon’s body heat was too distracting.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh…”

Sharon groped Tarja’s left breast. Technically, _Sharon pressed her hand onto Tarja’s chest area_. Tarja swallowed a series of protest when she felt the familiar pulse fluttering beneath her hands.

“Oh my god. Is it because of your blood?”

“My blood jumpstarted your heart.”

A big smile crept onto Sharon’s face, showing her dimples. Her joy made her brown eyes ridiculously bright and warm. Tarja inhaled sharply—she needed to breathe now, she realized—and thrown into a sea of lightheadedness. She was forced to close her eyes to recollect her balance. Although she was sitting on the ground, the haziness still caused her to slant sideways; a pair of steady hands were ready to catch her, gripping her upper arms and enveloping her in.

It was ironic. The times they hugged each other in the past 24 hours, were more than 24 days combined.

“Whoa, take it easy on your oxygen.”

Sharon chuckled next to Tarja’s ear, rubbing circles on the Finn’s back. It was soothing. Their upper bodies fit together perfectly, creating additional heat. On the corner of Tarja’s foggy mind, she hoped she would never have to leave this warmth.

“You smell really good.”

Tarja mumbled, her body absorbing the extra heat while busy producing its own. It had been more than 12 hours her heart stopped, and now everything was overwhelming her system. Her senses rejuvenated themselves as Sharon’s blood pumped into her limbs, creating another wave of stupor. Tarja wondered briefly if she was having palpitation.

Or was it because Sharon was so near, and it hadn’t felt this good for such a long time?

“You’re saying it just because you’re on O2-high.” Sharon didn’t stop rubbing her back. Tarja could hear the surprise and laughter in her words, “But I’m really, really flattered. You don’t smell so bad yourself. Must be all the baths. Lucky us to be walking along the river.”

Tarja felt drunk. She was woozy and uncomfortably warm. She freed herself from Sharon’s embrace, and glazed over the brunet’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

Sharon was alarmed by Tarja’s dreamy expression.

“Your eyes are really beautiful, and so does your face.”

With that announcement, Tarja reached for Sharon and cupped her face. Sharon’s eyes widened with disbelief. Tarja decided that the blush on Sharon’s cheeks looked pretty.

“Tarja, you are all flushed. Are you having a fever?”

Sharon pressed her hand against Tarja’s forehand. Her brows nearly shot to her hairline. The Finn was burning.

Tarja really liked this—someone taking care of her—so she hummed in delight and closed her eyes. She could hear Sharon’s heart thundering under her ribcage, like a bird trying to escape its cage. Bird? Why was she thinking about bird?

Tarja giggled.

Tarja Turunen, who was only capable of combat, survival and going against everything from Sharon, was now _giggling_ like a schoolgirl.

“I want to kiss you. Do you want to kiss me again?” Tarja slurred, leaning into their proximity. Sharon’s breath hitched. “I know you wanna. I know it, ‘cause I heard…” Tarja trailed off, looking at something in a distance, then her gaze returned to Sharon’s eyes with triumphant, evil glee, “I heard that you said you need me. And that you like me a lot.”

Sharon blinked. _Crap_. Tarja was not as dead as she thought.

“Listen, why don’t you lie down for a bit—”

“I like you too, Sharon.” Tarja cut her off, her tone was dead-serious, the light in her eyes scorching with life, “I think I love you.”

Sharon swallowed. She wanted to take advantage of this and fish more confessions out of Tarja. But Tarja needed to rest. The fever was going to exhaust her body sooner than later.

“Um, if you lie down first, I’ll kiss you, ok?”

“Promise?”

Tarja’s green eyes were misty and child-like. Her features are so much softer under the moonlight. Sharon nodded stiffly, sadness and exhilaration making her senses numb. _What a way to reveal your true feelings, huh?_

She helped Tarja into the sleeping bag; to make her more comfortable, she used her own as Tarja’s extra cover. It would also preserve more warmth. There was no telling what could happen after Tarja woke from this feverish episode. She could go back to normal, functioning as a normal human being if miracles are real. She could get stuck between being a human and zombie, constantly fighting her urge to consume flesh. She could burn and burn and die, or turn into a zombie.

God, Sharon didn’t like the possible outcomes. She needed Tarja too much, and in the past hours, she had only _started_ to recognize her feelings for the Finn.

Carnal need was just a disguise of Sharon’s affection, so she could lie to herself, that she liked Tarja because she was hot. It was more than lust…it was always so much more than that.

“Comfortable?”

Sharon husked. Tarja nodded with her lids drooping, eyes still gleaming hopefully. Sharon reached under her head, and loosened the bun Tarja tied. She wanted to cherish Tarja. If Tarja died, she would have no reason to go on, would she? _There’s no point to survive alone._ Not for Sharon.

Combing Tarja’s sleek hair from her face and neck, Sharon bent forward, pecking a chaste kiss upon Tarja’s lips.

“I love you, too.”

Sharon whispered, eyes watery. Tarja was concerned and confused. She reached for Sharon’s cheek and wiped the tears from her face.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m just…just really happy that I have the chance to say this to you.” Sharon gulped, short of breath, “Before everything is too late.”

“What’s too late?”

“Hush now.” Sharon shook her head, feeling a little foolish, “Rest.”

Tarja submitted to the weariness. She yawned a little before she fell asleep. Sharon gazed upon the Finn’s face, and looked away. She pulled the sleeping bag up to Tarja’s chest.

_Dear God, if thou exist, please let her survive this._

The star she wished upon didn’t answer. It twinkled wordlessly, promising nothing yet not denying anything. With that, Sharon slumped into the nearby ground with a “thud”, staring into the darkness with an intense, guarded look.

***

The sounds of the ambush came from a helicopter, a pre-Reckoning one that only appeared in Sharon’s History books. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. But she was sure she wasn’t dreaming. Sharon was indeed staring at something flying towards their direction. Before she could rouse Tarja from her slumber, the loud piece of machinery landed about a hundred feet from them, judging by the noises its propeller made. Sharon yelled at Tarja but she didn’t stir; her breaths were hot and shallow, but steady. After several curses, Sharon secured their rifle, handguns and the AK. She could taste the upcoming gunfight.

In the dead of the night, a trained military force came from the forest, rounded them up, and fired retractable, electrical nets. _Like shooting fish in a barrel._ Sharon fired at three faceless men with her gun. But she was soon electrified. There were simply too many. The outlandish squad hijacked them from the forest floor. Sharon couldn’t care less about what would happen to herself. She only knew, that if those armed bastards weren’t careful, Tarja could die without her supervision.

Then, she fell into a cloud of chaotic, spiteful nothingness. They had shot her with a dose of sedatives strong enough to put down an elephant.

***

Meanwhile, Tarja was having the strangest, most lucid dream ever. This time, the colors of the scenarios were more urgent and hostile. She dreamed about her missions. She dreamed about the redhead woman she met in Germany. Tarja was supposed to be undercover there, keeping an eye on a new-rising politician who was involved with some shady people. But she fell in love with someone, and it compromised her mission. With who exactly? _Simone_ , now she remembered. The red-haired woman was called Simone, and nearly everything she told Tarja was lies. Tarja had exposed herself when tracking the corrupt politician. It gave Simone the chance to infiltrate her life. Simone was not a German civilian. She was a Dutch spy working for an underground organization, which would later get strong enough to overthrow Old Earth, and build a new government on New Earth, a land which was more suitable for mankind. For the _selected_ ones.

The bullet Simone fired was not lethal, but making Tarja’s heart dead enough to give up a struggle. Then Simone told her it was because she loved her, she had to do it, and it was all for the greater good. _By double-crossing me, you mean?_ Tarja asked, bitter with the betrayal. Simone laughed sadly, _you’ll understand someday._ Then Tarja fell into blurs of darkness and lights. She caught glimpses of white beds, silver knives for operation, red hair that was once her comfort, then yellow syringe that brought the ultimate darkness, feeding her with beautiful lies.

 _Ah, the syringe was the culprit_. Tarja focused on the last bit of substance that got injected into her Old Earth’s body. But could she blame it all on the syringe? Even if those fake memories were all generated by the serum in the syringe, she still failed her original mission. Tarja still chose to stay with Marcelo. She still chose to have a baby with him so she could have someone safe to love.

But now she was probably less guilty: she never cheated on Marcelo. Tuo was only her ex-boyfriend from high school. _Well, that was progress._ Tarja thought wryly to herself, watching the rest of her fake memories fade out. Her consciousness growled in victory, trumping over her dream. Tarja was more complete now. She had reclaimed a part of herself, the part she never knew she lost. If only she had more time to go over everything, she might find the answers to solve the bigger puzzle. There were things more important than herself.

What did Simone mean “the greater good”? Where did she end up? Were they all chess pieces of a bigger scheme? Was it why she was alive until now?

_Where is Sharon?_

Tarja struggled to wake up. Rough hands caught her movements, and a cold, violent needle was jabbed into her neck. She slacked docility. It clearly wasn’t Sharon who gave her the shot. In the dark, before Tarja fell into unconsciousness again, she only had a few seconds to observe her surroundings.

And that was all she needed.

They were in the air. On a chopper? Tarja wasn’t too sure. They were literally prehistoric transportations. But she could hear the deafening noises of the rotor blades spinning; in her previous life, she was pretty familiar with that sound.

She could see Sharon across from her. She hoped to god she was only drugged.

Then Tarja gave in to the dark.

***

The two participants of The Grand Experiment were locked in separate rooms. They were facing each other with a reinforced, see-through glass between them. The rooms were soundproof. The deco wasn’t too homey. It wasn’t necessary. They wouldn’t be staying long. For _MCMLXXIV_ , nothing had to change if she was willing to comply with their terms. The Whitecoats were still interested in her performances, and would like to see more of her in the field.

As for the raven-haired woman, things were about to get more complicated. They had to examine her bodily functions and run a few tests. What she had displayed in the past 48 hours was simply magnificent. She was a brand new specimen, a variable which none of The Whitecoats had predicted.

Checking her profile, she was an expired agent from the Old Earth. What was interesting was, she was brought in by one of their own, then-special-agent Simone. Simone was one of their best assets. After her job was done, she was supposed to be terminated. But on her profile read _retired agent_.

And also: _Backup_ c _onsultant._ _Negotiation specialist_. _Participant of The Grand Experiment_. _Further information: classified. Would require direct contact with The Government._

***

Simone checked her acrylic nails. Then her gaze is fixed at Tarja from the other room. All those years, she still missed her. Did Tarja miss her, too? Maybe she chose to forget about her, because they all took what needed to be taken. After getting the syringe, Simone didn’t know what was real anymore. Since she had no interest to dwell in the past, it was convenient for Simone. Tarja was why—she was Simone’s only reason—she found meaning in outliving the others.

It was funny how the people they worked for treated them.

When Simone brought her to the other side, the Old Earth’s administration quickly disowned Tarja. She thought her organization would be different. When Simone finished her job, they decided they no longer required people like her. Bummer.

But Simone was smart. She was smarter than most people. She cut a deal with The Government: she would take the needle, forget what needed to be forgotten, and stay in her cozy corner. She would be a good girl, quiet and obedient.

The other agents like her all died, because they failed to foresee their coming future. _Idiots_.

Sharon outlived her kind with her head held high. She continued to live, not obligated to attend The Grand Experiment, and waited for Tarja to come to her. She knew Tarja would be surviving some small-time artificial-bullshit-experiment The Government authorized.

After all, Simone had lost count of how many programmes The Government was running in the dark.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

Contestant MCMLXXIV was awake. Simone unhurriedly turned around.

“You must be Sharon. Nice to meet you.” She smiled, knowing how many teeth she was showing. “My name is Simone, and there are things we should discuss.”

***

Tarja watched from a white medical-surgical bed. She looked around. _No potential weapons are visible._

She woke up refreshed in a hospital gown. The air smelled too clean like bleach and industrial alcohol. Her left hand was cuffed to the bottom rails of the cot. The material was probably stainless steel. If she had a pin, she could easily free herself. Tarja maneuvered and sit up, stunned at the scene playing out before her: her ex-girlfriend talking with her…friend.

Simone looked even better than Tarja remembered her. She seemed out of place, too pretty and dressed up to be here. Simone hadn’t changed a bit. In a black business blazer and a tight maroon dress (which matched her flaming red hair), Simone looked impeccable and dangerous and smart. _And Smart is sexy._

Tarja stopped her thoughts from going further. She continued to take mental notes of her surroundings.

Her spacious room was in ivory-white, and white was supposed to be a soothing color. It only made the room hostile. The fact that she was already cuffed didn’t help. She was separated from Sharon. The brunet was in the other room, and there was a wall of glass between them. The rooms were no doubt soundproof. Tarja wanted to read Sharon’s lips, but Simone was blocking her vision with her backside. Tarja had to admit it was a very great sight.

Sharon was in the same kind of bed, but not restrained. Tarja had been brewing a wild but possible theory in her head. Simone’s appearance made her deduction more sensible.

Simone’s presence guaranteed The Government’s part in all of this. So Sharon and Tarja must have been living in some sick experimental field. Plot twists, plot twists. The whole _The Grand Experiment_ was a scheme. But The Government must have something they want from her and Sharon, or why choose to reveal its secret, that they were living a lie?

Cold fingers of fear seized Tarja’s heart. She realized there was no way they could escape from here. They would have to either obey The Government, or they disappear (aka _die_ ) so what they knew wouldn’t jeopardize The Government’s fucking plan.

 _Knowledge is power_ , Tarja thought, and just on cue Simone turned around and met her gaze. Tarja didn’t shy away and neither did the redhead. They stared, with one look to make up for their absences to one another. The moment was loaded and electrified. They were both thinking about each other. Both with different agendas. They were different kinds of people, but similar enough; they had one coherent thought that was the same.

_How will I use her to get what I want?_

***

“Simone.”

“Hey, Tari.”

The ex-lovers regarded each other coolly. However, the raven-haired woman was slightly disadvantaged in their little rivalry situation. She was worried about her friend next room. Out of the corner of Tarja’s eye, Sharon was clearly having another one of her trances. She was hugging herself, retreated to the corner with a pillow in her grasp.

_What the hell did Simone tell Sharon?_

The conversation ended about fifteen minutes ago, but it felt like an hour. Tarja watched as the redhead walked towards the exit, swiped on the sensor with something she took from her pocket. The heavy door opened, and Simone left the brunet staring blankly into the void. Tarja had no time to do further interpretation on everything—they were in somewhere high-tech. Simone entered her room when she was trying to get Sharon’s attention. Tarja was just in time to collect herself into the coldest persona she could muster.

“Well, cut to the chase.”

“You’re still as impatient as you used to be.”

Simone drawled as she dawdled across the room. Her gaze lingered all over Tarja as she shrugged off her blazer. Tarja received a lot of skin in the process, and she knew it was a deliberate power-move on Simone’s part. It turned out she was wearing a thin-strapped dress underneath. It fitted her figure well.

“Like what you see?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

Simone raised a brow and smiled. Tarja sat straighter. Sharon was still clutching her pillow in her room. And of course Simone noticed, that Tarja’s attention was on someplace else.

“Your girlfriend has some serious mental problems to deal with, you know.”

Simone casually walked over to sit on the edge of the bed, not waiting for permission. Tarja set her jaw tight at the “girlfriend” part, but changed her mind at her response.

“What did you tell her?”

The redhead toyed the hem of Tarja’s bed sheet. Her blazer was plopped somewhere on the bed. Simone gave Tarja a long stare, and she had a feeling that something in Simone’s mind was made.

“The _truth_.”

Tarja did a whole-body, colorless laugh. Her metal cuffs clanked with the bed in that movement, making them painfully aware of her predicament. Part of the reasons why Tarja laughed was the irony that Simone hadn’t get. They were past this stage of wordplay.

“Oh, sweet Simone.” Tarja shook her head, feeling sad for the woman opposite her. Simone’s expression was a perfectly neutral mask, but a nanosecond of fret was all Tarja needed, “You are capable of everything but that.”

Hurt flickered by the redhead’s face. It surprised Tarja. Simone didn’t leave her enough time to process why.

“You are participants in an artificial realm of a project. Those who are tattooed, such as Sharon, are the main contestants. Those who are not, straightly put, are the expendables. The purpose is to see which one of the participants will last the longest. I would not be explaining the details, but it’s crucial that you understand, The Government is operating with the people’s best interest in mind.”

“Or so that is what they’ve been telling you. You are too smart to believe in all that.”

Tarja’s gaze could pierce. Simone didn’t waver.

 _Am I a contestant or an expendable now?_ _Who have I been in the very beginning?_ Ignoring Tarja’s wordless questioning, Simone carried on, “Sharon was offered with two choices: take the newly developed syringe, live in peace out of the realm. Or go back with you after The Whitecoats have finished with their researches on your biological mutations.”

“And you are choosing to tell me this. Why?” Tarja leaned forward, feeling her own hair sliding down her shoulders, “’cause from what I see, your job is to tell me to do exactly what your boss asks me to, or they will kill Sharon. They only bring her here to threaten me, don’t they? They could just leave her out there and take me instead. But no, they needed leverage. Sounds to me that they badly wanted us to cooperate, no?”

Simone’s face whitened.

“Once Sharon take the injection, the serum of the syringe will guarantee—”

“Fuck the syringe.” Tarja growled. Simone flinched. “You took it, I took it, and it’s just a shot of lies!”

The redhead looked gobsmacked. She didn’t know Tarja remembered. Tarja continued, “OK, so if Sharon took the serum, then what? She forgets about all of this, turns into a happy camper just so The Government can throw her back into zombie-land. If she said no, well, after those fucking scientists are done with me, they would kill both of us, am I right?”

“They wouldn’t. They won’t terminate such a valuable experimental asset.”

Sharon managed a leveled tone. Tarja wasn’t buying any of it.

“Which one is more valuable? An expensive contestant who was very likely to get killed on her first day alone, or, hiding a dirty secret that was probably going to blow The Government off of their thrones? You tell me which one is more important!”

The air echoed with Tarja’s sharp, shrill questions. Simone sat like a statue, her stare falling to her hands, now folded neatly on her laps. Tarja followed Simone’s gaze. _She did manicure?_ She felt a strange wave of detachment upon seeing Simone’s perfect nails; while she was out there risking her neck every day, Simone was safely tugged here, whatever this place was.

“How did you know I also took it?”

Simone asked quietly. It was the least reaction Tarja expected.

“I…it was a shot in the dark.”

“No it isn’t.”

Simone suddenly looked older, the energy and poise running out of her. Like the day she shot Tarja. Tarja cursed herself for sympathizing with Simone.

“After I noticed the gaps in my memory, and the flashes of things I was seeing, I guessed you may have done similar things, or you won’t be retired _alive_. You could also take the serum. The Government at that time, was maybe not that cold-blooded to throw one of its own in the field. After all, maybe you would have more to offer them.” Tarja replied with a softer tone, sounding a bit forced, “People like us are not needed anymore.”

“I made a pact.” Simone said flatly, not denying what Tarja just insinuated, “Take the serum, forget the past, live and move on. It was supposed to be easy.”

“But?”

Tarja inched closer to Simone. Under the white florescent light, her red hair glowed like flames of fire. Simone exhaled, her features hollowed with tiredness.

“Do you have any idea, what I’ve done for you?” Simone angled her head to Tarja’s direction, her expression so vulnerable that Tarja blinked. _Or Simone is just a really good actress._ Seeing that the Finn was immovable, Simone sighed, “I guess not.”

“If you truly loved me,” Simone snapped her gaze back at Tarja, and the Finn continued methodically, “You should’ve left at the very beginning. Not lying and lying until you brought me here so I can somehow live. Trust me, being out there is sometimes more horrible than death.”

“I cared for you!” Simone exclaimed, the anger and frustration seeping out of her frame. It stunned Tarja into a different thinking-mode, “Don’t you want to live? I gave you life! A second chance for a new beginning!”

“And you never asked if I wanted it.” Tarja murmured, lying back onto her pillow. Their past was here to haunt them, but Tarja had been chased with too many things lately, “If I am still impatient, then you are still selfish.”

“Touché.”

A period of silence ensued. Their proximity was diluted with emotions.

“I still want you to live, and it’s why I’m telling you what they want with Sharon.” Simone reached for her blazer jacket. Her expression was too serene to be natural, “But I guess there’s no point, is there? You are clearly in love with her, and _love conquers all_.”

She added theatrically. Tarja frowned.

“What are you saying?”

“You know things, but your girlfriend clearly doesn’t. She has 24 hours to make her decision.”

Simone smiled plastically, the triumph in her eyes too bright to Tarja’s liking.

“Does she know what the syringe will do to her?”

Tarja raised her voice. Simone only left Tarja’s bedside with a short glance. It was a look of pity.

“Oh, darling, would it make any difference?”

She sauntered away. Tarja stared, until green congregations appeared in her vision after Simone left the room. She couldn’t care less about her goddamn visual fatigue—what Simone meant was, Sharon was gonna choose between promises of safety, shelter, warmth…

And Tarja.

Sharon had now exhausted herself with her past nightmares, resting on the floor and hugging herself for comfort. Upon seeing that, Tarja really didn’t know what Sharon’s decision would be. _Numbness, or death._

Tarja didn’t know what she’d choose for herself as well.


	8. The truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You got anything…fleshier?” Tarja asked, “Not trying to be picky, but I’ve eaten better things from a can.”  
> The stranger’s eyes widened comically, like Tarja had grown a second head from her neck.  
> “Your humor is appreciated. Please. It’s crucial that you get your nutrition.”

A genesis captured

Ignited by truth

A martyr disraptured

A vision to soothe

_—Ghost_

Naomi was born and raised in The Hospital, post-zombie-outbreak. She had a tattoo on her wrist that said _MMXII_. She had trusted The Government, but then she didn’t.

She learned that the tattoo wasn’t her birthday. It meant that she was contestant number 2012. She found that out along with many things, like where she came from: a clone of a dead little girl, the daughter of an enemy (well, a renegade to The Government). The woman was called Tarja Turunen. So Naomi had to call her “mother”, then.

Naomi didn’t like The Guardians. She didn’t like The Whitecoats too, even if she was one now.

Her loyalty wavered with the things she uncovered.

The Government shouldn’t lie to its own. They were not created as a possible solution to the Nightwalker-virus. The government was just trying to produce some sort of ultimate bio-weapon. That way, they could wipe out the majority of the human race, if New Earth ran out of resources.

The Government shouldn’t lie. They weren’t experimenting in a restricted realm in a limited time. The truth was, the whole world was crawling with Nightwalkers except here, where Naomi and the other high-level personnel were at: the bunker of The Hospital. Truth was, The Government had no intention to stop the experiment. They just wanted to outlive all the others.

Yes, the zombie-outbreak was deliberate. The Government carved safe space down The Hospital, and unleashed the Nightwalkers when the time came. Naomi knew all about it because she was a part of the plan, and her conscience grew as the plan evolved.

She needed to get into the programme deep, so when she rebelled, her actions would bring some effect—The Government’s force was unimaginably powerful.

Naomi wondered if Tarja was still alive after taking the serum. Naomi missed the mother she never had. She had read about Tarja Turunen’s file. She had worshipped the Old-Earth woman. Growing up, she even invented her own story, imagining what it was like when Tarja was out on missions. Naomi wondered if she had “inherited” the rebellious bone from Tarja.

Another thing The Government shouldn’t do: claiming that the contestants came from donors’ eggs and sperms. There was no donor. The Whitecoats couldn’t control the results of unintentional genetic engineering, aka, natural human fertilization. (Naomi knew they tried and had to terminate the “results”. It was all cloak-and-dagger stuff.) Every single people with roman numerals as their tattoos, were a clone of the deceased. Collecting the DNA from the dead would a better variable to regulate when they splice the Nightwalker’s virus with it, since all the dead people—their health, jobs, personal info—were registered in The Government’s database.

It was all about control. And power.

Naomi had been guarding these secrets with her life. She was watched. Everyone in the bunker was watched. She was cautious, but she was not giving up the hope to find someone who could join her side. She had been looking for an ally. She once had one. But he sacrificed himself when things went wrong; all the more for Naomi to stand against The Government—earning justice with a healthy measure of revenge.

Simone Simons was the name that also appeared in Tarja’s file. Naomi had tried to dig deeper, but it seemed that The Government didn’t want anyone to know about the ex-agent.

 _Retired agent_ . _Backup_ c _onsultant._ _Negotiation specialist_. _Participant of The Grand Experiment_. _Further information: classified. Would require direct contact with The Government._

In Naomi’s best translation, this was what Simone’s file said: _I’m supposed to be killed by my superior but I survived. The icing on the cake: I also got the better end of the deal. I got a job that I didn’t have to work, a nice place to live that I wouldn’t have to fight the zombies. Jealous yet? Well, complain that to my boss. Good luck. Hope they wouldn’t want to kill you like they tried to do to me when I was retiring._

Naomi waited. She went to work every day with precision and mercilessness. In her imagination, this woman named Simone must have been waiting too. Waiting for something to disrupt this evil balance.

And that something happened to be two people; one contestant 1974, another one—who was switched from an _expendable_ to a _contestant_ —her mother.

Naomi had to perform a blood test and _something else_ on Tarja. And she knew just how to leave some bread crumbs for someone to pick up the trails.

***

Fuck the syringe. Sharon had put a red angry cross on that first option when she first heard it. She loved Tarja. She would never leave her behind.

Simone was the negotiator—or that was what she called herself. Sharon thought the beautiful redhead was just another pawn under The Government’s fingers. However, she couldn’t help but feel that, Simone knew who Tarja was. Call it a women-intuition (or paranoia).

Sharon didn’t have a lot of time to process her options. She had to follow her instinct. She wanted to talk to Tarja so badly. She wanted to touch her, to comfort her, to look into her granite-greens and Tarja would probably say something stoic like _you would be all right_. That desperation to reach for her friend, the new environment (bearing too much resemblance to The Hospital), the fact that she and Tarja were now prisoners, the fact that she had been living a lie…all of it triggered the most severe episode of trance in Sharon’s life.

After Sharon recovered, she found the Finn asleep in another room. Cuffed.

Taking some deep breaths, Sharon let her logic do its work.

The Government wanted her to back to the realm no matter what. And preferably, _after_ she took the syringe. Sharon wasn’t stupid. Connecting the dots, she could boldly assume the syringe was what jumbled up Tarja’s memories at first. (Now knowing they were both in the game, Sharon bet The Government must have done something to all the players.)

The best tactic was to stall.

By the end of the offered 24 hours, Sharon would say she’ll wait for Tarja to finish up her tests. But what would happen then? Maybe after they were done with Tarja, they would execute them both.

Sharon stared longingly at the sleeping Finn. Tarja had a peaceful look on her face. If it weren’t for the gentle rise-and-fall of her chest, Sharon would say she was dead. Tarja looked ghastly pale under the white light. She was too angelic to be existing in this godforsaken place. Sharon’s devotion to her had become irrational. She would deal with her feelings later. Now, she needed to do her best at understanding the whole picture.

_Why did the government orchestrate a zombie outbreak? Where were the other contestants?_

One of Sharon’s questions was being answered when a slew of medics entered Tarja’s room. Sharon tensed—all of them looked like Whitecoats. They were in white scrubs except for the leader. The leader was wearing a lab coat. Buttoned up. The leader was a woman, and she was smaller than the rest of the group. The other ones were all men, judging by their form. Sharon looked closely. There were blonde roots on the nape of the leader’s neck, just below the hair net.

Sharon didn’t move closer to the glass. She only perched up on her bed, trying to see what they were going to do to Tarja.

It was a procedure Sharon knew about. She recognized standard sterilization, emptied tubes and syringes. The medics were going to collect blood samples.

Then Sharon caught a movement from the leader. Holding the syringe, the blond raised it to eye-level, then gave it some gentle shakes to observe the blood she just drew. With that movement, her hand rotated, and the fabric covering her wrist fell a little, revealing something on her skin. Sharon knew what it was.

It was a tattoo, similar to her own.

Sharon couldn’t believe it. Was she a fellow survivor? As if the stranger knew what was on Sharon’s mind, she glanced at her direction. Their eyes met briefly before the leader broke their eye contact, so quick that Sharon wondered if their interaction was all her imagination. But Sharon’s thoughts were interrupted when she found that the medics weren’t done with Tarja yet.

They have another injector in hand. Gingerly, they passed it to the leader. The injector looked unfamiliar. It had a metallic body in dark silver, and it didn’t have a traditional pump. Rather, it had a button on top. A red electronic light was shining evilly on the side of its oblong body. The button was being pushed after the needle sank into Tarja’s neck. Ominously, the red light flickered green.

What had they injected her with? Did Sharon have the same thing in her own body?

***

Simone came to her after she was done with her mother. The ex-agent lady looked exactly like the picture in her file. It looked as if she hadn’t aged a day.

“You are the one who’s in charge of Tarja’s condition, right?”

“Yes.” Naomi replied, her brown eyes not shying away from the blues. The redhead who had barged into her office didn’t know that she knew who she was. Naomi said coolly, “I believe that this meeting is unauthorized.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, Ms. Simons. Very little, but quite enough.” Naomi gestured Simone to sit at the seat across from her. The redhead remained standing. “Are you here to inquire about Tarja’s wellbeing?”

“Why do you call her that?” Simone raised her voice slightly, “You just addressed me as a _Ms._ ”

“Ah, you are indeed very observational. Please, sit down. I am not the enemy.”

Naomi closed the blinds of her office with some taps on her computer.

“What do you mean by that?”

Simone sat gracefully. She smoothed her skirt over her knees. She was in a black pencil skirt and red blouse, a few buttons undone from the collar. Naomi was only in a pair of cargo pants and a white shirt. After she put on her lab coat, no one would pay attention to her outfit.

“Because technically, I’m Tarja’s daughter. I mean, cloned after her daughter.”

“She has…She _had_ a daughter?”

It seemed that Simone knew plenty about The Government. It sent a thrill up Naomi’s heart, replacing her loneliness with old spirits of hope.

Simone looked crestfallen somehow. She also looked more beautiful in person. Fine hair, glossed lips, polar-blue eyes.

“You mustn’t look back, Ms. Simons.” Naomi ended her untimely fascination on the redhead, then keyed in a set of code into her computer, “You are here for the future, no?”

Simone didn’t say anything. She just stared at Naomi as if she was trying to pick up traces of Tarja on her face. Interesting.

“Are you proposing something?”

“Well, I am under the impression that _you_ are.”

Naomi countered airily, her finger one inch away from the keyboard, which could set the secrets free from her drawer. Simone’s gaze was piercing.

“Yes.”

Naomi opened the drawer from below and grabbed a thick folder. Its design looked harmless and simple, but its content was elaborative and toxic. She handed it over to Simone.

“This has all you need to know. Read the parts I labeled. There won’t be time for you to go through all of it. When you’re done reading, please leave it on my desk. To bring it out with you would be the death penalty on your part, as you would understand the methods of our beloved governor.”

Simone took the folder and turned to a random page. Her eyes narrowed with disgust.

“The highlighted pages, Simone.” Naomi softened her tone, “I must leave now. We need to make sure our guests get their nutrition.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not carrots and sticks.” The blond stood up. She looked too young to have that shrewd glint in her eyes. She threw on her coat, and her small, lean figure looked more powerful than before. “If they refuse our order, we’ll go with parenteral nutrition.”

She walked past the redhead. Simone grabbed her wrist and stopped her in her track.

“What’s your name?”

Naomi was going to say it didn’t matter. Yet, she found herself answering with the tactile gesture.

“Call me Naomi.” Said the standing blonde, her words came out in mutters, “Don’t use Ms. It makes me sound old.”

“And what does that say about me when you call me with that?”

Simone let go of her and rotated her seat, gazing into her eyes. Naomi faltered. The retired agent was excellent at playing with body language and mind games. Naomi wondered if her mother was as good as Simone.

“It means I hold high respect to a fellow survivor.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Naomi sighed soundlessly. Her earpiece told her the team was already ready with the supplements. She just needed to bring the food to those contestants. It was ironic The Government didn’t pick her because her rank was higher; it was just that they considered the face of a female friendlier. Damn, feminism had gone back a hundred years.

With that comprehension, Naomi answered Simone tersely, “Just read the documents. You’ll see what our superiors have been lying about.”

***

It was a five-minute walk from her office to the lab. Their base was small. Naomi had the map of this place memorized from front to back. It would take four minutes to reach the wards if they took the emergency stairs, but now, with her crew, they were riding the elevator downstairs, so it would take only three minutes.

To walk from the ward to the roof of their bunker, would take approximately 20 minutes. 15 if running. Naomi had it all planned out. She hoped Sharon would choose to stay with Tarja, then she would have more time getting the supplies and helicopter ready.

Naomi had thought of Sharon and Tarja staying. But she ran out of plans to keep the duo safe under The Government’s nose. It’d better to get them out of the base. Ironically they would have a bigger chance at survival out there. Plus, Naomi had been storing away (stealing) from The Government throughout the years. Someone had found out. They killed Naomi’s precious ally for all the missing proportion of food, water, clothes, batteries, weaponries, and medications.

She needed a helper to sneak those things from the storeroom to the roof. Who’d be better at the job than a retired agent?

Naomi hated variables. The possibilities of different outcomes haunted her dreams. The distraction she could afford would be twenty minutes, tops. Simone—that is, if she was in for the plan—would have exactly 20 minutes to start the chopper from the storage compartment, move the supplies into the chopper, and fly it to the roof. Twenty minutes, no more no less.

In that twenty minutes Tarja and Sharon would have to make their way up the roof. Security cameras were planted all over their path. Naomi hadn’t found a way to create a diversion big enough than a series of fire alarms. It would take the base seven minutes to realize the alarm is false. Another two minutes to find that the wards are empty, and the contestants have escaped. Two minutes to alert higher authorities. One minute for The Government to give an order of shoot-on-sight.

As for the rest of the 8 minutes, armed security would be at their tails. But if lucky, the head-start they have would give them a chance—a slim one—to get onto the roof.

Naomi would lead them along the way. Then sneak back to her office with Simone via emergency stairs.

And then they wait. Wait to be held accountable.

Naomi wished there would be a better ending.

***

“Is this place wired with surveillance?”

Naomi blinked. She didn’t expect the brunet contestant to cut to the chase.

“Yes. So I suggest you cooperate.”

On the bed, Sharon sat rigidly with a plate of food in front of her. Naomi could tell she had a bunch of questions, but she couldn’t ask her, now knowing that they were watched and heard. _She is very intelligent_ , Naomi thought.

The brunet started with the jelly. It was standard hospital food with a few modifications. The jell had all the vitamins human bodies need.

“So, are you my shrink or what?”

Sharon demanded, glaring at the stranger with dirty-blond hair. She took a bite of the jelly. Her brows shot to her hairline. She wolfed down some more.

“You could say so. I am here to see if you took the nutrients as ordered.”

“Order from who?”

Naomi didn’t answer. Sharon continued to study the young woman, blatantly. The stranger didn’t look hostile. Nor did she look old enough to be here.

“Am I to give you my decision now, or do I wait for that woman called Simone to knock on my door?”

Naomi stayed silent. Sharon huffed. She could read nothing from the blond.

“Will you at least tell me your name?”

Sharon persisted. Naomi still didn’t answer. But Sharon caught her holding her breath.

“It’s not on protocol for me to engage in any kind of conversation with you.” Naomi spoke, slow and clear, “But I am aware you might rebel against my instructions. You might not eat your food if I didn’t answer your questions, am I correct?”

Sharon searched the stranger’s brown eyes. They gazed back, penetrating and cold. The rest of the “doctor’s” expression reveals nothing. Sharon suddenly realized that the stranger is trying to reach a kind of consensus with her.

“Yes. Yes, I might just do that.”

“Very well.” Naomi’s voice didn’t shake. Sharon could see just the slightest relaxation of the stranger’s brows, “I will tell you my name after you finish your meal. Do we have a deal?”

Swallowing the last of the delicious jelly, Sharon nodded.

Why her name of all the questions?

***

In the other room Tarja woke. She found her arm free from cuff but sore. Her neck was also aching. She rolled her neck a little, then she touched the sore side of her neck. There was a wound, already scabbing. It was one of the originations of the soreness. Absentmindedly, Tarja checked her arm and found another needle-shaped-scar. She was injected with something.

Sharon was eating. Tarja’s stomach growled at the sight of food. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Did uncooked rabbit count? Recounting that gruesome memory made Tarja nauseous. Thankfully her urge to eat raw meat was not resurfacing since she was conscious.

Tarja stared at the stranger in Sharon’s room. She was half-expecting Simone to be there, not a woman with strawberry-blond hair.

At this angle, she couldn’t get a better look at the stranger’s face. The blond was not tall. Thin with small shoulders. She was in a lab coat, and beneath that were a pair of cargo pants. Her standing posture looked confident. There was eagerness in her stance, like she was expecting something to happen after Sharon finish her food.

Tarja tried to remember how long she already had been here. Sharon’s 24-hour-notice hadn’t gone so fast, right? It was Simone who was supposed to be here, collecting the answer of Sharon, right?

***

Meanwhile, Simone sat in Naomi’s office, face ashen. _Ignorance is bliss._ She felt nauseous at the information she had just consumed. All those plans, tests, experiments, failures, human lives handled in inhuman ways—Simone never thought she was still capable of rage. Rage was for people who are still young and innocent. Simone was the exact opposite of innocence. Her heart was battered blue with a million things she’d done. Those histories aged her from within.

But maybe after she was shot with the syringe, the serum had changed her. Maybe it had wiped her slates clean.

The redhead started to weigh the cost and gain after she calmed down. Maybe she was still the same—calculative, manipulative, believing she was doing things for the good cause, that she was on the right side.

But she was always standing on the edge of it. She was neither black nor white, enjoying the rush and adrenaline pumping through her system, conscious that she was operating in the gray fog, with a pair of gray gloves covered with blood.

Simone’s sleeves were covered in blood. The only belief that kept her alive, was that those lives she took were also far from innocent.

Now, apparently not. According to the files Naomi gave her, Simone had been helping the wrong side.

***

“My name is Naomi.”

With that announcement, Naomi took the empty food plate from the contestant’s lap away. She was careful to show her wrist tattoo with that movement. It was subtle so the camera would catch nothing; deliberate enough for Sharon to see.

Sharon’s eyes widened. _She has brown eyes, too_ , Naomi observed. She threw a casual glance at Tarja’s ward, and clashed straight into the raven-haired woman’s gaze.

Something happened in this cosmic moment, whether it was Sharon noticing the disbelief on Tarja’s face, herself constructing a crazy theory fit for a post-apocalyptic world, the sharpness and cautiousness of Naomi’s face that reminded Sharon of _someone_ , or that Tarja’s face was waxen as if she had seen a ghost from the past.

Or maybe none of it mattered because all at once, the three women shared the knowledge, that they were part of something that was much bigger.

***

Tarja was nervous. She was next in line to be fed by the apparition of her daughter—the “doctor” who had brought food to Sharon’s room. Tarja considered the possibility if she was imagining the whole thing up. But after the blond stranger left Sharon’s ward, Sharon continued to stare at Tarja, face pale with yearning, eyes burning with triumph, hope and terror. With that look, it reassured Tarja that everything was as real as zombies.

The stranger entered her room with a plate of food. She brought that to her bedside. Her hands were steady. Her nails were trimmed to stubs. Maybe she was one of the medical personnel.

A million words died in Tarja’s throat once the stranger’s eyes bored into hers. They were light brown, like tinted diamonds cutting through the impenetrable, razor-like.

All those details of the blonde’s face—the thin brows, the flat mouth, the delicate width of the nose, the round of the cheeks, the texture of the hair (now closer, Tarja can see that it’s the color of burnt sienna and rustic brown), the pale of the skin—all of them reminded Tarja of her daughter. There were some differences though. The shape of the face had thinned tremendously. The childish-pink of the cheeks was gone. The dark-circles beneath the eye sockets. The perceptive look of focus, crawling on the stranger’s face in small creases between the brows, making her scholarly and condescending.

“I trust you know what to do.” Said the stranger smoothly, with a perfect English accent, voice lower than expected. She laid down the plate on Tarja’s lap, “You saw what the other contestant did.”

“Sharon.” Tarja interrupted, reaching for the fork at the sight of meat, “Her name is Sharon.”

“There is no point to use names.”

The stranger murmured as Tarja’s fork sank into the breast of the chicken. Tarja snapped her eyes at the blonde. Her stomach rumbled. There was no time to feign demure. The stranger’s eyes flickered in a particular direction. A place in the corner of the room. Tarja instantly knew they were being watched. With a great chance of being tapped. Maybe that was why the stranger didn’t talk much to Sharon.

“Why not?”

The stranger pursed her lips. _Wrong question._

“What did you talk about?” _Wrong_. The stranger set her hands akimbo. She was waiting for Tarja to make the right conversation.

“Who are you?”

“I am here to make sure that you eat. That’s all you need to know.”

“And if I don’t?”

Tarja raised her voice. The blond arches a brow.

“Then we take matters into our hands. I strongly advise that you finish the meal.”

“What if I just don’t? Are you going to give me another shot?”

Tarja barks, not really angry but for experiment’s sake. The stranger dropped her hands in frustration. She turned and prepared to leave.

“Wait! Wait.” Tarja shouted, tearing a piece of meat with her fork and shoving it in her mouth, “I will eat. Look, I’m eating.”

The chicken tasted like sandpaper. She chewed it with difficulty and swallowed. The stranger was just in time to turn around, capturing the disgust on Tarja’s face.

“Is there something wrong with the food?”

“It’s over-cooked.”

Tarja blurted, realizing she was expecting something meatier, and rawer. The blond frowned.

“Please try the rice.”

Tarja did, albeit begrudged. It was tasteless, with a weird gritty aftertaste.

“What’s the matter this time?”

Tarja didn’t answer. She was in panic. She took a bite of the jelly. It didn’t have any sweetness. Nor sourness. No nothing. She dropped it back onto the plate with a _clank_.

“You got anything…fleshier?” Tarja asked, “Not trying to be picky, but I’ve eaten better things from a can.”

The stranger’s eyes widened comically, like Tarja had grown a second head from her neck.

“Your humor is appreciated. Please. It’s crucial that you get your nutrition.”

Tarja grimaced. She carried on chewing, passive. The standing stranger relaxed palpably. It was a very interesting development; Tarja couldn’t see which side the blond was on. She seemed willing to share intel, motive unknown. She didn’t seem like a stone-cold bureaucrat from The Government. Despite the formality of her actions, the unwillingness to break some kind of medicinal protocol, the stiffness and the harsh, robotic attitude, Tarja sensed something else. A connection. A mutual interest to help, to inquire and improve.

“Can I at least know my condition?” Tarja voiced against the quiet. The stranger jerked her head to Tarja, “It’s awfully unfair. The outbreak was basically on _you_ people. You guys spied around, so you knew about me being bitten by a zombie. You took my blood…yes, I know you did.” Tarja raised her volume to speak over the blond, “You poked around with my body. I think I deserve to know a little about your plans for me. And for Sharon, too.”

It was a perfect mixture of speech. It had a dose of sentiment. A dose of imposition. A dose of stubbornness. A dose of cautiousness. A dose of pride. A dose of meekness. The blond looked impressed. Tarja gave her absolutely no reason to turn down the question.

Two can play this scene for the people behind the cameras.

“We are now running tests on your blood. You are a new specimen. There’s no one quite like you in the realm.” Carefully, Naomi sitting by Tarja’s bed, the gesture startlingly out of character, “Everything is new to us. Contestant number _1974’s_ blood is engineered as, colloquially speaking, _poison_ for blood transfusions. It has Nightwalker’s DNA in its cells…like a benign tumor; this design is for disinfection, if a Nightwalker should attack the contestant.” She used _number_ nineteen-seventy-four, Tarja noted, and it didn’t seem like a slip of the tongue, “Theoretically, when her blood entered your body you would die, within a few minutes. However, you were already infected, and your body mistook Sharon’s blood as a vaccine to a cold, instead of toxin. All in all…”

The stranger lowered her gaze to her own hands.

“Your body is playing a tug-o-war. A difficult one.”

“Tell me what will happen to me.” Tarja snapped, her voice biting into the uncertainty of the blond, “Am I going to die?”

“If your own blood won, you turn, since you are still carrying the Nightwalker’s virus. If Sharon’s blood won, you die of fever, because your system isn’t designed to carry that kind of bodily tissue. If the Nightwalker’s virus won, well, you still turn.”

“This is preposterous. Then why am I alive now?”

Tarja felt eerily calm at her death sentence. The stranger inhaled deeply. She looked haggard all at once, like Tarja’s fate was the source of her sadness. It was odd that she cared. Tarja couldn’t fathom why. She was just a part of the experiment, and the stranger supposed to be one of The Government’s evil minions. They were supposed to opposing-sides. However, the stranger was sending a funny message that she was also on Tarja’s side. It wasn’t mock-sympathy. Tarja could tell a good actress when she saw one.

“As I said, your body is at war with itself. And that was why your brain tells you that you are hungry at the sight of food, and yet, your body craves raw meat. Isn’t that so?”

Tarja set her jaw. She dropped the fork back to the plate with a hopeless _clang_.

“I hope you guys can stop fucking with me. I’d really appreciate that.” Tarja muttered, mournful, “It sucks when you know nothing about what is going to happen to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tarja’s brows nearly jumped to her hairline. The stranger was also startled at her own response. It was too late. Tarja felt like crying at the authenticity in the stranger’s tone.

Naomi saw all of the emotions passing by Tarja’s face. It was strangely touching. The medic almost wanted to come clean with everything. She wanted to say _I’m your daughter_.

Tarja got to the silence first. She simply uttered, “You are just following the job descriptions.”, then she refused to look at her anymore. The rest of the food stayed untouched.

Naomi picked up the plate on Tarja’s lap. There was some kind of gravitational force, that when she trudged away from the older woman, she felt an unreasonable longing to turn back. The desire to speak and interact with Tarja was so strong, like the raven-haired woman had switched on some kind of emotional faucet in her. A parental, maternal kind.

_But I am only a clone of her dead child._

Naomi had to chant it like a mantra when she called her team. They needed to prepare to administer parenteral nutrition.


	9. The endpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Give me some time, and I’ll overcome this…whatever this is.”  
> “If you overcome this, then what’s the fun of it?” Tarja’s smile deepened, and her tone dipped, “Part of the fun is watching you squirm.”

Where you go I go

What you see I see

I know I'd never be me

Without the security

Of your loving arms

Keeping me from harm

Put your hand in my hand

And we'll stand

— _Adele_

Sharon thought she had been dead. Or, she had lost herself somewhere on the journey. Had she ever had a _soul_? There was no time to think about it—she was just _contestant MCMLXXIV_. There was no point to think about life when you spent the entire time fighting for it. There was no excuse for her to toss life away when she got to live.

 _Live for what_? For whom? For her companions? For Tarja?

She put everything else—the others’ survival, for starters—before herself. Now she felt like a big ol’ stubborn machine missing the most important cogs.

Compassion, love, and emotions.

Had Sharon ever possessed those human traits? The detachment was derived from the soundless scene acting out before her. Her eyes refused to believe the chaos. Tarja was staring at her with alarm, then somehow, the same team of medics was in Tarja’s room. Sharon had no recollection of them entering. The Finn was being forced a shot of something—tranquilizer, since she went into a coma. Sharon felt numb when her friend was cuffed again.

The medics buzzed around Tarja like she was the queen of the aliens. IV bags, plastic tubes, bandages, moving the unconscious limbs around, injection, and violent seizures. Tarja’s body started to convulse as the content of the IV bag flowed into her system. Sharon’s body was uncoordinated with her brain. She blinked stupidly and felt as if her face was waxed. Panic crawled everywhere like ants on her body, as if trying to remind her that her body was still conscious.

In the other room, the medics’ movements went erratic. They abandoned the procedure by unplugging the needlepoint buried in Tarja’s forearm. Tarja was still in shudders, like a demon had possessed her. The medics un-cuffed the raven-head, afraid that she would hurt herself by flailing her hands in steel. One of the lab-clothed medic monitored Tarja’s heartbeat, then gave several shakes of his head. The medics quickened their motions. They gathered up their equipment and the next thing Sharon knew, they rolled Tarja out, leaving the room behind.

Sharon stared at the empty space in deafening whiteness.

_Is Tarja dead? Am I dead, too?_

***

There were four facts Simone learned.

One. _The government was trying to come up with the best bio-weapon, so they could wipe out the entire human race (excluding themselves, of fucking course) if the resources on earth finally ran out._

Two _. The artificial realm was not limited in space and time._

Three _. The entire world was crawling with zombies._

Four _. The roman numeral tattoos were not birthdays; they were numbers of contestants._

Which came down to questioning her own moral compass—that is, if she had one. How far would Simone go to survive? Would she strike another deal with The Government, trading the info of a high-level Whitecoat who had positive motives to betray? Or would she gamble with luck, joining forces of the opposite side?

Simone had long (chose) to forget why she was serving The Government in the first place. It must be feverish, adolescent dreams. Dreaming if suit-clad-men could save the world, women can, too, with more grace and beauty to it. Dreaming that on the path of losing her soul, someone would come along to share a piece of themselves with her.

She had also forgotten _when_ she became Simone Simons, this hollow shell of a human being. Hanging onto tomorrow because tomorrow would always be better. Hoping someone would remember her glory and who she was; hoping she would have a place here, in this miserable bunker, cowering in a dirty corner for survival.

Simone wanted to say she forgot how and why she got into this. She wanted to say she stayed in the business because she liked it here, not because she was dreading the day her bubble would burst. She wanted to say she was a selfish-fuck who held her survival at the zenith.

Alas, at this point in life Simone was too smart to be lying to herself.

She decided to help Tarja.

_Sometimes dreams are all you have, and all you are worth._

***

Naomi had those childish flashbacks she made for herself. Looking at the files with Tarja’s name on it, looking for all of the details—the exact square meters of the Finn’s flat, her husband and her family members, _where_ did she go to work, _how_ did she go to work, how she must have taken care of _the_ Naomi who eventually died in her arms.

Naomi made up those scenarios in her head, wondering what it would be like to have a mother to take care of her. Would Tarja be a strict mother? Would she teach her math and music? Would she take her to _school_ (an interesting facility/concept which existed in the Old Earth for such an amazing span of time, that the New Earth’s government also established _school_ in their regime)? Would Tarja secretly cry in her _car_ (another old-time invention The Government adopted) after she dropped her in school?

It was crazy and irrational for Naomi to miss someone (who had never been in her life) like this. But this feeling of tether existed before she found The Government was sweeping under their carpet. Rumors said that she wasn’t the only one with _issues_ —those who had “defects” such as deviant sexual preferences (same-sex, no-sex, both-sex to name a few), peculiar interests in “irrelevant” cultures (Celtic, Mongolian, Buddhism, Egyptian mythology, Daedalus and Icarus and the imprisonment of Minotaur), hallucinations of the past life, which Naomi deducted, was the biggest failure of _premature cultivation of the Immortalized cell line_.

In plain words, the Whitecoats pre-Reckoning weren’t professionals.

In medical areas, technical skills could quickly be out of date for all of the invested money and numerous helping hands. As one of the _products_ —someone who had a set of tattoos—Naomi was sharper than most. She didn’t have any special abilities (those people who were being tossed out into natural evolutional chain, a cruel, efficient decision on The Government’s part). Naomi was only a bundle of advanced tissues—more resilient, rarely tired, accelerated metabolism which made her think faster, molding her body into a shape that best suited her lifestyle.

The only downside: she’d die of natural aging five-times faster than normal people. That was the only defect within her generation. They grow fast. They die faster. The law of the energy cycle. Periodt.

Was Naomi afraid of dying?

The only thing she was scared of was that the secrets were going to die with her. That the forbidden knowledge she had (knowledge _is_ power!) wouldn’t make any difference in the world, this tattered world of people who wanted to play gods, people who didn’t, and those who weren’t even human. _1984_ was perhaps better than the world they lived in.

Naomi had plenty of time to think about her own identity. She thought she didn’t belong to any of the categories above.

_Where do I belong then?_

Then as if God had an answer for Naomi, Tarja bolted from the bed—like a mummy in cheap horror flicks—as they were about to rush her to the ER’s. It all happened fast.

Tarja grabbed ahold of her collogues’ collar and smashed his head against another Whitecoat, so hard that they must be concussing. Naomi winced and froze as Tarja used the bed as leverage—nothing fancy—only to strike the rest of the Whitecoats on the windpipes, her palms forming in the shape of blades. Naomi’s collogues clutched their necks, but the only sound that came was them dropping on the ground. _Thud_. _Thud_. They were incoherent with Naomi’s heartbeats. Tarja stared at the blond, her face pink from her sudden movements.

“Open the door.”

It was a repressed, irrefutable command. Naomi didn’t sever their stare-down contest. They could have a shot at this. She could pretend to be hijacked by Tarja and Sharon, but actually leading them into safety. But Simone wouldn’t know the change of plan.

There was no one to trigger the alarms.

“You faked a seizure?”

Eyeing the fire alarm just beside Tarja, walled-in five feet away above, Naomi feigned disbelief. Unfortunately, the entire bunker was under surveillance and wired, so Naomi had to keep up her act. She couldn’t be the one to touch the alarm.

Tarja narrowed her eyes in confusion and anxiety. Then she raised her brows in comprehension.

“And you fell for it. So much for a bunch of weird-ass minions.”

Naomi almost laughed at Tarja’s word-choice; she also realized, for the first time in her life, she was nervous beyond words.

Tarja hurdled herself at the fire alarm and levered the handle downward. White lights from the ceiling switched to an ominous-red. Emergency bells whooped politely in a distance. The halls were empty with faint echoes of footsteps.

Naomi could _hear_ the static electricity buzzes in the securities’ earpieces. Wartime procedures being enacted. Emergency channels on the radio were flinging to life.

She hoped no one had found out about their kerfuffle. Cautiously, she beeped open the ward’s door. The contestant inside jerked her head at Naomi in bewilderment. But Naomi was no better than her.

“Sharon! We got to go!”

Tarja nudged aside Naomi from the doorframe, and dashed towards her companion’s side. She grabbed her hand. With that contact, Sharon came to life.

“Tarja!”

Sharon wheezed. Her eyes shone with newfound, razor-like focus. Tarja was her clarity. The brunet jumped off the bed. She gathered the Finn into a bear hug. So warm. Tarja felt a wonderful ache at her chest, something close to flutter, then she was overwhelmed with a false sense of safety. _Sharon. Sharon. Sharon. Her anchor. Her home. Her friend. Her love. Everything is fine now as long as we stick together._

“We don’t have time for hugs, Sharon.” She murmured, raspy, “We have to go, _now_.”

“Naomi is going to help us?”

Tarja turned frigid. Sharon let go of with alarm. Tarja’s ears hummed. She felt as if she was stunned by a net of bees. She couldn’t feel the pain because the feeling was greater than a blow in the head. It felt like the universe had poured all of its stars on your head.

“What did you just say?”

Sharon shook her head. She tugged Tarja’s hand, dragging them both towards the blond. She didn’t take her chance to close the door and trap them inside, Tarja realized distantly.

Sharon sighed, hands cold, “I wish there’s time to explain. We’ve got a shit-ton of things to fill each other in.”

***

_…This is not a drill. A fire alarm has been activated. Please act immediately to ensure your own safety, proceed to the stairways or the nearest exit of the building. Do not use the elevators. Attention, please. This is not a drill. A fire…_

The fire alarm was the “on” switch of Armageddon for Simone. _So soon? It’s not even the time for Sharon’s 24-hour notice to expire._ But Simone didn’t need to hear from the brunet; she already knew Sharon’s answer. She could see it in her eyes, those innocent, antagonizing, infuriatingly brown eyes. Those eyes Tarja had sworn utmost loyalty to.

 _Damn it, then what am I doing here? Playing the third-wheel in this gothic satire?_ Jealousy and anger had thrown Simon into this suicidal-mission. She felt obligated to help. She wanted to prove herself.

She avoided the cameras, stealth like a fox. She chose the path designated for shipments or cargo to go through, not the ones for military usages. The damp aisle was filled with dusty cobwebs. It was wide and dark like a mouth swallowing Simone into the unknown, except that the redhead knew where she was heading. The passage would lead her straight into the garage, where the aeroplanes and other pre-Reckoning relics/weapons resided.

Naomi’s instructions were explicit and overly-elaborative. Luckily, Simone had been training herself with a photographic memory. The supplements would be hidden under a water-proof fabric, loaded in green duffle bags. The total amount of the supplies would be five, tucked away in an abandoned corner where the Whitecoats stored pre-war equipment.

Simone was timing herself all the way. She followed the timetable strictly. Not to brag about, but twenty minutes were seriously downplaying her abilities.

The chopper’s engine coughed and sneezed. Then it roared like thunder. Sweaty after carrying the bags into the backseat, Simone remembered the first (and the last) time flying it with her ex-girlfriend. Tarja passed-out, Simone guilty, with her then-partners (Mark and Isaac, both terminated after the Reckoning) shooting doubtful looks at her direction. Simone was ready to meet them with firm glares.

 _Tarja is mine_ , warned Simone silently, _you dare to lay a finger on her, you’re going to wish you are never born_.

Everything turned out to be a satire. She had not only let The government touch the only person she cared about, she let them all be played. In retrospection, her revenge was overdue.

 _Take this you selfish fuckers_ , Simone murmured, with something un-knotting inside as the helicopter soared. The old piece of hefty machinery kicked the ground behind. Simone remembered the exact route Naomi planned out. She had to give it to Naomi. That clever Whitecoat exceeded and contradicted everything Simone had known about people in the system. Simone didn’t know there was someone like her amongst the Whitecoats, especially a _girl_ —Simone had to remind herself constantly: she shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Naomi was sly and cunning with loads of potentials (and secrets) for Simone’s future utilization (that is, if they survived this).

Simone’s mouth was filled with a sour, metallic taste of nervousness. Her hair was sticking to her neck. Her palms were slippery against the handles. Strapped-in and helmeted, she was sweltering in her working attire—a three-piece-suit with an oversized blazer, tieless, and supermodel-heels (well, she wanted to appear casual if she was caught). However, she had yet to work out an excuse.

She’d trust her cleverness and spontaneity, then.

This was the first time Simone so unapologetically disobeyed The Government. If she weren’t careful it would be her last time. But Simone was always careful. That was how she always survived.

***

Unsurprisingly it was Sharon who broke the ice. Their conversation flowed sporadically and angrily, with awkward pauses and of course the biggest shock of all, was the revelation of Naomi’s identity.

Tarja had no time to process that. She didn’t know what to feel about it, nor how to react. Naomi was her daughter but then she wasn’t. She was supposed to be their enemy but she was helping them. There was no time to be picky about the source of their aid. There was no time for Tarja to dwell about the petite blond, the daughter that Tarja never had.

_…darling, hold me, hold me, hold me_

_And never, never, never let me go…_

Naomi’s body wasn’t engineered to this level of intense physical activities. Her breaths were in irregular patterns. Her face went puffy with this excursion. She could barely talk in coherent sentences.

The talking stopped when the alarm switched off. Naomi checked her watch—this went too smooth to be true—six and a half minutes had gone by. Naomi couldn’t be too cocky about their escape. Tarja’s attack out of the ward had tipped off the securities. They were on their feet, efficient like a team of kill-robots. Besides her panting, Naomi could hear her fellow Whitecoats’ discussion in her earpiece. They revealed a lot of useful information, such as their own locations.

Which was basically on their asses.

“Hey.” She barked. Her expression cushioned her harsh voice, making the duo ahead pause to look at her, “Our people are coming to get you.”

Sharon tsked, as if saying _is she seriously still keeping up this act_. Tarja sent her partner a glare: _cut her some slack she is my daughter_.

It was like watching an old-married-couple interact. Naomi couldn’t pinpoint her feelings about this. The wildest thought struck—Naomi suddenly wished that there could _also_ be someone there for her in her life.

“Tell us where they are now.”

Tarja demanded. Naomi blinked at the softness in those green eyes, contrasting with the stern mask Tarja was wearing.

“A bunch of them. Fifty. Armed. Flooding into the halls we just went by eight minutes ago,” Casually dropping hints, Sharon arched her brows approvingly. They didn’t stop ascending, “It would take them less than a minute to reach these stairs. They will shoot us from below.”

“Well that’s just spectacular.”

Sharon drawled. Naomi ignored her.

It was pushing into nighttime. They were climbing an endless series of outdoor stairs, S-shaping towards the top. The dark was suddenly illuminated with the same red lights. Those like fire alarms.

“See the pink lights?” Naomi huffed, her legs sore but her adrenaline had successfully drawn her attention away from her discomfort, “That means you have their attention. Troops are now officially on our tails.”

“Just how many levels are there in this…bunker?”

The brunet asked stiffly. Naomi didn’t blame Sharon for being hostile, because she was responsible—taking Tarja’s blood, injecting the tracker in her veins, keeping those venomous secrets from surfacing, not acting sooner as more innocents die.

“And the securities are going to know exactly where you are. The exact altitude. The exact longitude and latitude.”

Naomi threatened, voice meek in the ears (she was out of breath), hoping someone could pick up the clues. For a frightening minute there were just heavy footsteps padded by naked feet (good thing that Naomi had packed them boots in the supplies), and the frenzy heartbeats of her own vibrating her flushed body.

Finally, someone spoke up. Her mother.

“You put trackers in me.” The corner of Naomi’s mouth twitched upwards. Her mother was really living up to her reputation. According to her file, Tarja was one of the best agents in Old Earth’s government. “Did you put one in Sharon, too?”

Naomi stayed quiet. The silence would speak for herself.

“How do we take it out then?” Asked Sharon.

“You can’t.”

“How do we disable them?”

Before Naomi could give a proper answer, a series of heavy treading shook their footing. The emergency stairs beneath their feet trembled. Naomi couldn’t tell how close they were.

“How do we disable them!”

Tarja asked again, urgency making her tone sharp.

“Electrical current should do the trick.” Naomi snapped, sick and tired all of a sudden. Her knees buckled as she held the eroded handrails for support; her body strung on the verge of collapsing, “But a strong one. So you either shock yourself with an AED for example, or there was no way you could turn the tracker off.”

“You’ve been tracking us, tracking _me_ , with the thing you put inside Tarja, right?”

Gasped Sharon, also short-breathed, “Please don’t tell me that was why the zombies appear like clockwork. You also put some kind of heads-up gadget inside of them?”

When Naomi stayed silent this time, Sharon clapped her hands together, surprising the other two.

“I knew it!” Exclaimed the brunet triumphantly.

“Curb your enthusiasm.” Tarja groused, “Naomi, is there anything like an AED on the rooftop?”

“I am not sure.”

Naomi had to lie. She packed just what they needed in the supplies, but they couldn’t know that. She couldn’t spill out the secret just yet.

Plus, if they didn’t make it to the roof, there was no need to plan further. False hopes could kill.

***

The guards caught up with them after they reached a dead-end. In Naomi’s wildest dreams, she would never have thought the stairs would lead them to a cul-de-sac—a simple, shabby metallic door. It was supposed to be open when an emergency occurred.

“Fuck!”

Sharon cursed. She gave several shoves at the iron door (and an angry kick) to no avail. Naomi could hear the chopper’s steady hum from the other side, buried by the crashing footsteps under. _Simone has come_ , Naomi registered that abstractedly, forgetting to feel relieved while the air filled with horrifying footsteps. She bent over slightly, clutching her lower abdomen. She was breathing with difficulty. Her thighs were cramping.

“They locked it.”

Naomi announced, face patchy-red with ill gray indicating her maladjustment to the stair-climb. Tarja gazed at the blond, a look mixed of berating and concern that made Naomi quiver inside. In this situation— _even_ in this messy state—Naomi felt the irresistible force that made her want to hide into Tarja.

The three women were disheveled by perspiration and panic. A sense of doom loomed them lower into the night. Crimson lights shone from the walls, sprinkling evil beams on them like the warmest welcome of Satan— _this is the entrance of your eternal residence, children._

“Is there anything we can do rather than wait to die?” Asked Tarja, no sarcasm intended, “I thought these kinds of doors were supposed to be open.”

“They saw you on camera—”

A series of broadcasting cracked from below, splitting the restless night into war.

_Please cooperate and drop any form of weapons. Stay put and wait for instructions. Please cooperate…_

The rest of the message blurred when they reached Naomi’s ears; she was in conflict with tremendous relief and her tired sensations. Naomi couldn’t believe their luck. Until this point, The Government still didn’t want to give up its experimental properties. Naomi thought they would be executed on sight.

Which meant, they could still have a chance at this.

“I’m your hostage.” Deadpanned Naomi, “You don’t want to let me go.”

Feeling a drop of sweat dripping from her forehead towards her brow, Tarja’s mouth fell open. Sharon was quicker to react. With a graceful, feline swirl and a painless knock, Sharon had Naomi’s submissive form in front of her like a shield. Tarja yelped when being pushed aside. Then she gaped at the bizarre sight. Sharon, flushed, her arms locking a redder Naomi by the neck. “What—”

“She’s our hostage, isn’t she?”

Sharon cut Tarja off, eager eyes wide with fear. If Tarja weren’t equipped with related knowledge, she would say their position looked convincing. But the angle was wrong. Sharon couldn’t hold Naomi down if she really struggled. All of this was too much change and action for the day, but a part of Tarja craved this. It reminded her of the old days of field missions, all blood and gore, bullets and targets, confrontations and negotiations.

The footsteps drew closer. Shooting one last look across the rusty door. Tarja aligned herself with Naomi and Sharon.

She might have seen somebody. She might have heard something like the sound of the propellers. Or it might just be the deafening footsteps.

“Stop where you are or I will kill her!”

It was the loudest holler Sharon had ever mustered in her entire life. Across the bolted door, Simone also heard Sharon’s yell.

After a bumpy landing (in Simone’s defense she hadn’t been in the air for a while) on the sandy roof, Simone kept the helicopter at heat.

She was wondering what the hell was holding the trio back. Once she saw the closed door, she figured it out. The exit of the fire-escape was on hold because the alarm was switched into another kind of alarm. The kind that was only activated on the day of Reckoning.

Simone went over the bags Naomi packed; there was a collection of electronics and weapons. Then she eyed the door which was infuriatingly still.

The door was progressive. It was bulletproof, designed in The Government’s early domination, equipped with fine tech—a semi-auto remote-control-lock. But it was crusty with rust. Tarnished by sun, wind, and rain, the three-inched door was brittle was obstinately hard, but crispy like a cookie.

Simone was ready to fire any type of gun that could blast the door open. Her heartbeats accelerated until they drummed like when she had her first kiss. Her hands were clammy like the first time she ever killed someone in simulated combats. Her head was spinning but she couldn’t afford to lose focus on her one -last-mission.

_Lord, give me one last chance to prove my faithful ground._

The first bullet missed the electric lock completely. It sank into the concrete surface of the wall. Mind you, the redhead was basically shooting blind with intuition. Simone’s only sources of illumination were the red lights glowing weakly around the door, fifty yards away. The second bullet hit the center of the door with a loud bang, merely inches above Sharon’s head.

The brunet jumped. Then the three women ducked in unison.

“Where did that come from?”

Shouted Sharon with her hands covering her head. Tarja sent a quick, inquisitive look at Naomi’s direction.

That was when Sharon got hit.

The muffled shriek she gave split the night into chaos. Tarja watched in slow motion as Sharon clutched her side and rolled, nearly falling head-first down the stairs.

The troops stopped advancing. _For now._ They heard the shooting, and were probably waiting for further instructions.

Dragging the stricken dark-haired woman and the wounded brunet, Naomi maneuvered awkwardly on the ground. She tasted the dirt and metal in her own mouth as they moved, positioning themselves on the several levels of stairs below, so they could dodge the bullets. The incoming bullets from the other side were ruthless. Whoever the shooter was, he or she was determined to blast the door open.

Then the stairs shook again. Tarja checked on Sharon. Her face was pale. The crimson was spreading on the white fabric speedily. Sharon was shot on the left thigh. If she wasn’t lucky, the damage on the nervous system there might cause her to never walk again.

“This is really nothing.” Sharon blabbered amidst the raining bullets. Her mouth was moving too fast that she could barely talk, “Zilch. Zero. I have never had a gun wound as trivial as this one. This was no big deal. Remember the time when we were stuck in Region 17? Or was it 18? I don’t know, I have a bad memory. That time when we were trying to escape from the hospital we bumped into about three Nightwalkers on our way to the back. Actually I had something to confess then. I was one of the wounded but I was healing fast. So now it will be the same. I will probably self-heal faster than you can imagine—”

“When the shooting stops we charge.”

Naomi shouted.

“We just throw ourselves against that door?” Responded Sharon within a heartbeat.

Tarja could see the front of the security making their way up the stairs. A swarm of them. Deadly pests.

“There’s no time!”

With that yell, Tarja got up and ran. A bullet nicked by her arm but she couldn’t feel the burn. Nor did she register the pain when she knocked herself onto the iron door, shielding her face from the metal shards when it crumbled, a human-formed hole newly created as she dashed through.

Another bullet went through her shoulder.

Or was it a piece of iron that punctured her flesh? She couldn’t care less. She could tell the shooting had stopped _thank god_ and as her eyes got used to the darker environment, she saw who was previously firing in the big, vigorously droning chopper.

_Simone._

There was a rough shove from behind then Tarja was made to run forward, stumbling with numb feet, never realizing she’d stopped running. Sharon and Naomi had caught up. Now the three of them were running towards the helicopter. It felt as if they were running forever but when they reached the chopper, there was another blow that made something in Tarja’s body scream, but then the pain was gone as soon as it came.

“What the hell was that about?”

Tarja asked shrilly when Sharon got the same treatment. The brunet stared at the redhead, who was tossing a weird-looking, edgy gun to the back seat.

“It’s for the trackers in you. Your welcome.”

She said, sending the blond a tiny, cautious nod. Naomi nodded, shaken but visibly relieved at the gesture.

“When did this happen?” Tarja’s mouth moved on its own accord, “I thought you were working…”

“No time to explain, doll.”

Just like that their old pet-name rolled out into their space. Tarja blinked as the old memories came rushing in, then she effectively shut down the reminiscence. There was no time.

Simone descended the aircraft. At the bottom, Naomi extended a hand, genteel, her face painted with comprehension about the redhead’s relationship with her mother. It made sense now.

“You lovebirds need to hop in.” Said the redhead-beauty, not letting go of Naomi’s hand, her grip firm. Simone’s presence was formidable. Undeniably posh and heroic. Even Sharon was a little bit drunk under her influence. “Go on, chop-chop.”

The taller woman obeyed. She made it to the co-pilot’s seat. But then there was Tarja, touched and stupefied, so grateful and disbelieved at the possibility: _Simone had come around._

“Why?”

Tarja’s voice came fractured. _Why help?_ Behind them, the troops were approaching. What was left between the ex-lovers extended like an elastic shield, hiding and revealing things that were meant to be.

“I think you know.” Answered the redhead softly. Simone could see the things swirling inside those ocean-greens, shining the light on everything. And the redhead smiled, soft and un-complicated like the first time she realized she had fallen in love with her mission’s target, “Now _go_.”

Naomi squeezed Simone’s hand, having the instinct that the gesture would give Simone the strength she needed. Simone’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t let go.

The blond tilted her head towards her mother, proud and unwavering, “We would take care of the rest. Don’t worry, mother.”

It snapped Tarja back to reality. Grabbing the iron edge of the door, she followed Sharon, crawling then maneuvering until she was in the pilot’s seat. She felt dizzy although she wasn’t claustrophobic.

Tarja swept her gaze over the blinking buttons and control-panels. Everything was in complicated colors. There was a sick flutter in her stomach, but there was also Sharon. At the thought of her friend, Tarja took a sharp breath and—

The next thing she knew they were off the ground. Someone shouted _thank-you_ in the background but Tarja wasn’t sure if it was she who had said it.

It was all hectic and hazy. They may have gotten shot, judging by the unnatural smoke (but Tarja couldn’t trust her own senses) and the sudden jolts from behind. Tarja was tired.

Her condition was bad and she hadn’t flown for years. There were several spots on her body aching like hell but she had to focus. Her mind was warped. Her vision was blurry.

Or maybe it was because she was crying. Sharon watched in wonder at that, her own legs ceased bleeding. She could feel the tissues closing up on the wound, meaning later she’d have to sculpt the bullet out.

That was later. Now they were free. _Free as wounded birds._

She marveled freely at the tears escaping Tarja's eyes, down across her shapely face, washing over the dirt, and the lines of angry red cuts made by her insane dash at the iron door. Sharon giggled at how ridiculously brave and reckless of Tarja to do that.

Then it teared Sharon up: she had almost lost the only person she cared about. Joined with the relief, shock and exhaustion, and the residual effect of adrenaline, Sharon needed to control every iota of herself to not howl with laughter, cry hysterically, or doing it all together right here right now, several hundred feet off of the ground with the woman she loved.

So instead, Sharon stripped and DIYed makeshift-bandages with her hospital gown. Tarja’s protests erupted into curses when Sharon staunched the Finn’s bleeding sternly.

Then out of nowhere there was the sun, rising slowly in front of them like a late, groggy giant. The timing of the sunrise had never been so perfect. There was hope yet.

They glided across the thin dawn. Their chopper sliced through the air. Facing the sun, they cast weightless shadows were behind.

***

The general court-martial was reopened. There was no ground for the insurgents to beg for their mercy.

The duo knew they were going to die. They didn’t try to plead for their innocence. For Naomi there might still be a chance, but for Simone there was no need to come up with a story. _Anyone who gets involved must die._

Simone felt peaceful to sacrifice for a clear cause; it was a state of mind, so loud and coherent that it was surprising.

Naomi had fourteen more years to live. She thought her life was long enough for what she had done. She didn’t want to live very long anyway.

Ironically they were locked into the rooms which once held the contestants. Now that Sharon and Tarja had escaped, it was convenient for The Government to make this taunting arrangement.

A week later they were returned to their original positions as if nothing ever happened. No punishments, no questions asked, they were neglected and spoiled like a pair of mischievous children.

Words said there were shifts in the highest levels of The Government. Words also said that they were not alone. Somehow in this utopian world a dystopia was rising slowly, growing like a tumor that any kind of corrupted system must endure.

Maybe humanity wasn’t rotten after all.

***

“I still can’t believe they let us go.” Rasped the redhead.

Naomi noted that Simone’s breath smelled like red wine and a faint trace of peppermint. She smiled and flushed, satisfied with what she discovered of the cunning woman. Simone mirrored Naomi’s expression. The former spy must have caught everything.

Simone sipped the wine from her glass. The ruby liquid went smooth and rich, intoxicating her senses. Maybe Naomi was dreaming. Perhaps they were all living in a dream. She gazed (more like peeked) at the beautiful older woman. Simone was a fox, a very alluring one. But now she was someone else…something _otherworldly_.

After several beats of wordless stare (their chests heaved in a slightly irregular rhythm), the blond answered, “You regret what you did?”

Simone stared back with a neutral mask, and took a good moment to assess the blond before her. Magic always happens if you let the silence do its work.

Naomi seemed older after a fortnight.

They were at her suite, a luxurious corner she managed to bargain from The Government. Her compartment offered a view of abundant greenness, and the most important element of all, privacy. Simone made damn sure her apartment wasn’t bugged.

Simone and Naomi didn’t know what they were doing. According to pre-Reckoning knowledge, if someone invited you over for dinner for various reasons and occasions, and they often asked you to stay for a nightcap—it meant they were attracted to you.

Naomi was never familiar with this. To be frank, Simone didn’t either. All she was good at were mind games.

“I don’t know.”

Simone found her own mouth moving on its own accord. Just like that, her façade crumbled. Naomi furrowed her brows together.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, there are always the good sides and the bad sides…as you science people say, the _variables_.” Simone re-crossed her legs, her tone dipping teasingly to cover up the fact that she got flustered for admitting something so loud.

Ever so perceptive, Naomi finished her glass and ventured, “Well, is _this_ a bad outcome or a good one?”

The tension stretched. Then it settled. Both of them knew what Naomi was referring to. Although no one knew the outcome nor the ending, at least they had some kind of new beginning.

A smile sprawled across the over-heated cheeks, eliciting another from the blond. Simone moistened her lips and whispered, “ _This_ , I don’t regret at all.”

***

Words were underrated. So they found they have always been using body language.

They dragged their bodies until they were half-a-mile from where their chopper landed. Then just like that, they paused in unison beside the river. Tarja collapsed first, dropping everything in a clamor. Sharon joined the Finn, sharing the exhaustive, unguarded expression. There was a loose, rueful look on the raven-haired woman’s face. The sunlight glared too sharp, casting them into a place with no shadows to hide. The weather was too good for the setting; there was no cloud. The sky was so blue that the river took the chance to boast its clearness, reflecting the light until the stream looked like liquid-silver.

When Tarja came back round from observing her surroundings, Sharon was already performing a small surgery on herself.

“Sharon!” Tarja exclaimed, but Sharon had already plunged the knife into her skin. Hissing, she deepened the incision of her left thigh. A gasp erupted from Tarja while Sharon hissed. They were both immersed in Sharon’s pain. Trickles of blood oozed out into a mini rivulet of red, ribboning Sharon’s tender skin with a stripe of vibrant color. Then another kind of liquid appeared on the brunet’s face; it was not like Sharon hadn’t done this before. This time, it felt _au naturel_ —Tarja was staring her with unveiled concern. Somehow, Sharon felt it was finally ok for her to cry in front of the Finn.

And it didn’t stop. When Tarja drew closer, kneeling beside Sharon, the tears fell like she forgot to turn off the faucet of emotions. Teardrops collided at the tip of her chin; they dripped onto the soil, somewhere near the point of Tarja’s feet. Tarja’s throat closed up. She could feel the tremble as the salty water hit the dirt. She knew Sharon wasn’t crying for just a bullet.

An abrupt movement rippled through the brunet. Her shoulder jerked to wipe the accumulating tears away. Tarja sprung to action. She rummaged through the bag Sharon had opened, and found a pair of forceps. The hinged instrument felt too delicate to be held by her fingers. But at least her hands weren’t shaking like Sharon’s.

She placed a placating hand on Sharon’s forearm. The brunet didn’t stop to look at the Finn. She only let out an unsteady breath.

The blade left the wound.

“It’s ok…” Rasped Tarja, “You are ok. It’s ok.”

She rubbed light circles on the warm flesh beneath her hands. Sharon tilted her head and gazed into Tarja’s eyes. The deja vu hit. Tarja stopped, recalling the time in the back of the convenience store, where the air was hot and she had to fix Sharon’s shoulder. What was she thinking about then? Maybe the feelings had already blossomed back when Sharon stared into her eyes, like now. Sharon’s eyes were moist, and there was a storm brewing in those kaleidoscopic browns.

Their relationship was never like looking through a kaleidoscope.

What they had was not volatile nor violent. It was a sweet kind of affection, building up every time they survived with one another, getting stronger every time when the unsaid was understood without words. It was simple. It was true.

“It hurts.” The corner of Sharon’s mouth twitched as if she was trying to force a smile, but she failed. Instead, another large drop of tear glided across her cheek. She moved Tarja’s hand away from her shoulder gently. Tarja stared at their joined hands that quickly became separated. Sharon was the one who withdrew, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be whining…you are hurt, too.”

She scanned Sharon’s face. Things gushed up but no words came out. Tarja’s mouth went slightly ajar. Then she pursed her lips and shook her head. She adjusted her position to be at only one level atop of Sharon’s injury.

“Hush now. I’m gonna get this fucker out.”

That broke the heavy tension. Though puzzled by Tarja’s previous action, Sharon smiled lopsidedly. Then she bit the inside of her cheek with clenched fists as Tarja sank the tool underneath her skin. The pain was less extreme. Sharon looked closely at Tarja’s frame: her furrowed brows, her taut lips, her green eyes that are now razor-sharp with attention.

Other than the searing pain, it struck Sharon again how beautiful Tarja was.

“Do me next after I am finished with this?”

Caught off-guard by Tarja’s inquiry, Sharon blushed and hoped the other woman wouldn’t notice. God, this was the worst time to get sheepish.

“Glad to.”

***

They buried their dirty clothes and scurried away from their crime scene. After noon, it became hotter, but the weather cooled down significantly after they crossed the border of Region 4 and 3. They were treading East, and the sun was being left behind.

Tarja wondered if seasons existed in this artificial realm. If they did, it felt like autumn now. Did Sharon want to experience the change of seasons? What was her favorite season? Was she interested in Old Earth?

What would happen to Simone? And Naomi? Would she be alright?

Tarja’s mind was mush. She could barely think. Everything she conjured up was distractions for the weariness and pain. Her body was aching and she craved food…food that wasn’t supposed to be consumed by normal human beings. But Sharon wasn’t normal; she was modified. She was a contestant, but also as human as she could be—

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Tarja blinked, noting that Sharon had slowed down the pace. She stole a curious glance at the brunet’s direction, and found Sharon there to meet her eyes. It was almost unfair she still looked so pretty after they practically fled miles from their capturer. Sharon’s frame looked smaller somehow. Or maybe it was because the dark atmosphere made her shadow drag long behind.

“Just...it’s nothing important.”

Tarja said gruffly, avoiding Sharon’s eyes. The brunet frowned. Tarja looked sweaty and pale. Her skin was gleaming in an unhealthy tone, and her heartbeats were unbalanced and rough. Sharon cursed to herself—she had forgotten that _Tarja needed her blood_.

“I’m hungry.” Not entirely lying, Sharon continued, “Let’s call it a day?”

“Sure.”

Murmured Tarja. And the gratitude was so transparent that Sharon smiled. Maybe the Finn no longer wanted any walls.

***

Dinner was roasted potatoes, tuna from the can, and caramel cookies for dessert. It was the best meal they ever had out in the wild. Everything was easier after they washed in the river. But something was building…Sharon didn’t know what it was. So there was no telling when “ _it_ ” was going to combust.

Sitting by the fire, the silence became exhilarating and terrifying. The flames flickered, but the golden light didn’t exactly paint Tarja into a better complexion. Her emerald eyes looked abnormally huge, like she was a leopard searching for its prey. Sharon licked her lips. Her hair was dry now, and she was guessing so was Tarja’s.

She cleared her throat. Tarja didn’t look in her direction. She kept on staring into the flame with eased-brows and flattened lips, as if she was mesmerized by the light and warmth.

“So…” She winced as she broke the quiet. Her voice sounded so abrupt in the dark Tarja jerked her head towards Sharon’s direction, eyes a little foggy. Sharon swallowed, “Do you…um, you feel any better?”

“You mean after being shot?”

“Yeah—no, what I meant was, do you feel…like you want anything else?”

Tarja frowned and cocked a brow. She did a poor job at containing her surprise. Sharon flushed after she realized what she’d just said. _Way to go, Sharon. This is how you flirt._

Tarja squirmed, “And would you care to propose anything else…?”

“Blood. My blood, I mean. Sorry. I’m just afraid you would turn if you didn’t, you know…” _If you didn’t pump my blood into your veins. Finish your sentence, goddamn it._

“Ah. I see.”

The raven-haired woman chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. Sharon combed her hair from her face and refused to fidget. She was expecting Tarja to reject the idea. The Finn liked agreeing to disagree too much.

“Let’s do it, then. You’ve seen anything like a blood-transfusing kit around?”

Tarja stood up in languor and stretched. Sharon watched in awe, processing the fact that Tarja had just gone along with her so quickly (and Tarja also looked super sexy in a tight woolen top and a pair of combat pants; it was the softest look on her yet).

“No! Let’s look for it then.”

Sharon jumped to her feet. Tarja’s gaze lingered on the brunet’s pink face and willowy frame, then she licked her lips unconsciously.

***

Sharon was sitting closer than ever to Tarja as she really needed to focus with pins and needles.

Tarja’s body was so warm. Sharon could feel it through layers of fabric, and could tell the heat apart from the campfire beside them. Somehow, industrial soap smelled better on Tarja. The sharp, clean scent kept rushing into Sharon's senses, robbing her focus from her current task.

“What’s wrong?” Asked Tarja.

“Hmm?”

 _Maybe Tarja could read minds._ Sharon took a breath and tucked that notion away, not meeting Tarja’s inquisitive eyes. With the ball of cotton, she disinfected the spot (with alcohol! Now they have alcohol AND iodine) on her forearm, then pressed the needle into her skin.

“Nothing.” Tarja looked away and muttered, disappointed, “I thought you were worried. I’m not very sure about this…considering what happened last time.”

Sharon knew it wasn’t scientific, but she imagined her blood must have taken a spurt into the syringe—she was flushing _way_ too hard.

“You…um, you remember all that?”

“Most of it. But it was all very hazy.” Wondered Tarja, her tone faraway as her gaze trailed back to Sharon’s skin. Darting out her tongue to moisture her lips, she continued, “There were love confessions. And I think we kissed, too.”

“Yeah.” Choked Sharon. She finished her part of collecting blood, and thanked the gods that she had something to do with her hands instead of looking at Tarja, “But I doubt that anything that crazy would happen this time, considering your heart is still beating. This time you probably wouldn’t go high on oxygen.”

“That true?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Sharon snapped her fingers, gesturing Tarja to surrender her forearm. The Finn obeyed and leaned in. Her expression was unreadable.

“Where do you think we’re going next? Now those trackers are deactivated, we can go wherever we want.”

Distracting Tarja with small talk (since she remembered she hated needles), she slapped on the inside of Tarja’s elbow to make the veins pop.

“That sounds too good to be true.”

Tarja commented. Sharon shrugged as she successfully located the veins.

“It’s what we deserve, don’t you think?” Asked Sharon. Tarja took a sharp intake of breath as the needle tilted on her skin, forming the perfect angle to penetrate, “Except now, we have to add The Government into our list.”

“The list of things that we kill on sight?”

“Well, I was gonna say _avoid_ , but if that was what you said so…”

Sharon smirked.

“Do you seriously think this is the life we deserve?”

Tarja didn’t sound livid or annoyed, just curious. The tube was half-emptied now. Sharon chewed on the inside of her cheek, going over her options. There were two ways for her answers to go. One was to be honest. The other was to dodge.

Sharon thought about her struggles with her identity. About she was human or not, about whether she had a soul. She thought about her feelings for Tarja. She thought about being completely alone, wanting for someone to be there just to _understand_ her.

“No.” Before she knew it, her answer rushed forward, “But it’s the best we could have.”

Tarja didn’t say anything. She only pressed onto her wound after Sharon pulled back the needle. Then she closed her eyes and exhaled shakily.

“How are you feeling?” Asked Sharon intently. Tarja’s heartbeats were accelerating. She could hear it.

“Gotta lie down…” With Sharon’s sturdy hand to assist her, Tarja laid onto the sleeping bag that wasn’t splayed open yet. A faint, serene smile appeared on her face, now shining with a rosy, healthy glow. Sharon couldn’t help but reach out, brushing Tarja’s hair away from her neck and shoulders. Her hair was soft like the clouds that could melt on your hands.

“You make me drunk. Maybe I need to quit you.” Muttered Tarja. She opened her eyes, and they were somehow reflecting the distanced flames, “Nothing good ever comes out when I got hooked onto something.”

“But you can’t. You need my blood.” Sharon gulped, maneuvering herself next to Tarja, “You need me. Can you stand the fact that you need me to live?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She just swept her gaze all over Sharon, affectionate and so tender that Sharon wanted to cry. Tarja’s features were blurry and milky.

“Can _you_?”

Tarja spoke, her soft, unhurried lips pink and dewy. There was a faithful look in her gleaming greens. In the darkness, Tarja was in tranquility, like she was ready for anything that varied from a bullet to her head to a kiss on the mouth. There was a steady pulse on her neck. There was also a whole universe shimmering in her eyes. Sharon was out of breath as the air thickened. This was bound to happen, and it was coming in waves now.

“The sweetest burden I’d die to carry.”

Upon hearing the response, the Finn closed her eyes and sighed. Sharon could see a lonely tear that glided over Tarja’s face and landed in her hair. She used her thumb to trace the route of the salty water. Tarja reached for her hand. Sharon paused, her heart beating in frantic. Tarja’s hand was dry and smooth, cooler than her own.

“Would you lie down with me for a while? I’m cold.”

Sharon complied and they ended up lying on their sides, facing each other in less than four inches. Their breaths mixed together in electrical proximity. Tarja hadn’t opened her eyes, and Sharon used this opportunity to study the Finn’s profile. The harsh lines on Tarja’s face were ironed out. The wrinkles visible were now around her mouth, her eyes, and her temples. Her skin was humming a language Sharon couldn’t comprehend; not so defined or precise like Morse code, but something like a whisper next to the ear, something delicate and secretive.

“Well are you going to just stare at me?”

Tarja’s breath fluttered on Sharon’s face. Sharon stopped breathing for a second.

“Oh, right. You’re cold.” Sharon swallowed audibly, “Can I…?”

She scooched closer. Tarja answered with a sluggish curl of her body, she that she could hide into Sharon’s embrace. Sharon tried to not be too frigid; where was her bravery for her “experimental phase”?

“Your heart is hammering like you just finished a 100-meter-sprint.” Remarked the Finn, her voice muffled in Sharon’s chest, “Is this making you nervous?”

“No, I mean, yeah, I guess.” Sharon bit her tongue, “I guess you’re making me nervous.”

“I’ve practically just confessed I can’t live without you. Just what sort of reassurance do you need from me?”

Sharon chuckled silently at Tarja’s dry humor. It calmed her down.

“I’m sure I can come up with something.”

She ran her fingers through Tarja’s hair. Never in a million years did she think she could squander this kind of moment. She repressed her appreciation, and let the ambiance of safety soak up her whole self.

“Why am I not surprised at all?” Smiled Tarja crookedly.

“I’m probably the most annoying woman you’ve ever laid down with in the same bed.”

Tarja stayed quiet. Sharon waited, not as nervous now, and hoped that brushing through Tarja’s hair would be calming. Then she fell asleep after verifying Tarja’s breathing had evened out.

The night sky was bright and clear. The dark had cloaked a color of protection on the duo. An owl was hooting in a distance, creating a symphony with nightingales and frogs. Nothing came to disturb, only a thin fog. However, something woke the Finn up. It was a fragmented memory that came to find her.

_The cold forest air has always been Tarja’ favorite kind of scent—the smell of nature, and a billion possibilities for green lives to thrive, always send an exciting jolt in Tarja’s heart, making her hunter-sprit howl with delight._

_This time she was after a target. A deer with flaming red fur. Tarja already caught too many glimpses of the animal. Her mother is nowhere in sight, and Tarja tells herself that’s because her mother has faith in her, but it still makes her semi-worried. With each step, an ill-omened feeling seizes her tighter. Maybe she is being hunted, not hunting._

_Her stride quickens with her heartbeat. Then she starts to jog. Her heavy rifle bumps on her body. The strap attached with the weapon strangles her as she ran. Maybe she is not going to breathe for any longer._

_She trips. She falls into a pool of warm crimson. In panic, she struggles to sit up. She is sitting in her daughter’s blood._

_Naomi, Naomi. Tarja implores urgently and collects her daughter’s body into her hands. Her gun was restricting her, so she discards the weapon, and carries Naomi on her back. Her face is numb with fear. Tarja tries to make her way through the forest. The forest has become deadly quiet all except her labored breathing. A figure in red appeared in front of her, so suddenly that Tarja screams._

_She’s not who you think she is, Simone says. Somehow the redhead is in the forest. Is Tarja hunting Simone all along? Or is the tracing another way around?_

_What do you mean? Asks Tarja. Put her down, doll. Then you’ll see, answers Simone._

_Somehow Tarja is too afraid to question anything. She does what she’s told. After she lays Naomi on the ground, Naomi grows into a grown woman. Tarja takes a shocking step back. Naomi opens her eyes. Her eyes are wide like marbles, empty. The rest of her features changed, rotting into one of those evil creatures._

_Run, Naomi says. Her voice is inhuman, somewhere near a growl. Tarja whimpers and stumbles backward._

_You’ve given up your gun for her, observes Simone coolly, is it worth it?_

_Paralyzed, Tarja watches her daughter morph into a Nightwalker. Tarja is helpless. She wants to scream for help, but she knows that no one will come to her._

_Naomi sits up to pounce on her, and searing pain explodes at where her daughter has bitten her. A gun fired behind Tarja. A bullet hit Naomi in the head. The angle is all wrong. It’s all illogical. Tarja is too scared to know that._

_You aim for the head, not the heart, says the voice behind Tarja as Naomi crumbles down and vanished into dust. Simone walks away and disappears into the light. Tarja swirls around to see who the mysterious help is, and that’s when she gets shot._

_I’m sorry, Tarja, says Sharon, holding a handgun with her eyes full of tears, you’re the one who says I’d have to kill you before you turn._

_That’s okay, Tarja wants to comfort her, she wants to say so many things but she’s already crossing over…crossing over to—_

“Tarja? Tarja!”

A pair of hands shook her awake. Tarja sits up with a loud gasp, like someone drowning that could finally breathe. Sharon was holding her sides, like an anchor.

And maybe Sharon was her shore.

“Bad dream?”

Sharon sounded sweet and hoarse in the dark. Tarja gulped and nodded, not meeting the brunet’s alarmed eyes. The nightmare felt so distant now with Sharon’s warmth, but Tarja was still shaking.

“It was so real…” Tarja blurted, “Maybe it’s because I’ve remembered too much in the past 72 hours.”

“I want to know, you know.” Sharon said cautiously, and found Tarja’s icy fingers. She laced them together. Tarja looked back at her, her pupils dilating in the darkness. Her expression was weirdly unguarded. Sharon licked her lips, suddenly shy, “I want to know you. Your past, your stories, who you are. I want to know what you mean by aiming for the head, not the heart. I want to know you as a person, not an attractive enigma.”

Sharon shifts her gaze to their hands. She felt feverish, and she wondered if Tarja could feel how hot her skin was.

Tarja didn’t answer straight away, nor did she draw her hands from Sharon’s hold. When Tarja did (which Sharon felt a century had passed), Sharon jumped, “Considering that you think I’m attractive, I’ll tell you about it.”

 _She is smiling_ , Sharon realized after she reconnected their gazes, _and it’s the most beautiful sight for sore eyes._

“Am I talking in my sleep?”

“Yeah…but I didn’t hear too much. I was asleep, then I heard something about aiming and Naomi…”

Sharon trailed off. Nibbling her bottom lip, she didn’t know if they had trod into forbidden topics. Tarja sighed tiredly, slouched, and rubbed her eyes. But then an unexpected smile jumped onto her face.

“You fell asleep?” Ask Tarja.

“Yeah, or what else could I do? It was very comfortable.”

The Finn raised a brow. Sharon blushed.

“I have a feeling that we’re going to make a habit out of this new…sleeping arrangement.”

Tarja eyed the unopened sleeping bag, which was lying peacefully underneath them. Sharon stuttered, “Well, um, you have a problem with this? I mean, I don’t mind. But if you’re not comfortable—”

“Good god, Sharon.” Sharon’s heart fluttered, hearing how soft Tarja pronounced her name, “It’s fine. I’m only joking.”

There was tenderness floating inside of Tarja’s ocean-greens. A faint smirk mixed with affection, angled Tarja’s mouth upward. The smile appeared more layered.

“Sorry, I’m not familiar with you being like this.” Sharon thought out loud, smiling timidly, “Give me some time, and I’ll overcome this…whatever this is.”

“If you overcome _this_ , then what’s the fun of it?” Tarja’s smile deepened, and her tone dipped, “Part of the fun is watching you squirm.”

Sharon widened her eyes like a deer caught in headlights. She hoped Tarja wouldn’t see how red her face was under the moon.

“You…you are…insufferable. Even now.”

It was the weakest comeback Sharon had ever produced. The Finn grinned so wide until her eyes were crinkled. Sharon watched in awe because she had never fathomed that Tarja was capable of this kind of expression.

Then the smile retreated. Tarja’s gaze turned serious.

“I’m going to tell you a story about a little girl, an Old-Earth-agent, and a childless mother. Are you sure you want to hear about it?”

Sharon set her jaw, and gave Tarja a firm nod.

***

The duo talked the night into daybreak. In exhaustion, they fell asleep next to each other. The cold woke them after 10 hours of dreamless slumber, and they discovered it was almost sunset.

They never knew how exhausted they were. Their energy and strength were burnt for being captured, trying to escape, and escaping. The supplies would be able to support them for a few more days if they started to hunt for food, but they’d eventually have to venture into Region 3 or 4 for more equipment.

Needless to say, without the trackers exposing their whereabouts, peace had changed from a luxurious concept, to a reachable goal for the Finn and contestant MCMLXXIV. The Nightwalkers never show up, nor did other survivors or the government’s search-team.

Tarja shared about her childhood, the earth in the past, and her beloved daughter. It was not a one-sided communication, much to her relief. Sharon was a good listener. When Sharon listened, she used all her focus. Sharon never once give her own selfish input. She sat quietly like a little girl, and listened like a woman who could understand without judgment. Tarja didn’t talk too much about her feelings at first, like a narrator describing historical events. But Sharon _asked_. She was genuinely curious. She asked great questions that made Tarja want to share more. When Tarja did, she found she was more at ease than expected to expose vulnerable sides. Sharon was there to catch her. When Tarja paused to collect her thoughts, Sharon would share pieces of herself with her, all relevant and authentic.

They talked about Sharon’s trances. About Tarja’s secret conversation with Robert, then about Sharon’s relationship with Robert. Then Tarja told Sharon about Simone.

They may be completely different kinds of people, but they were yin and yang—things that happened to them came in full circle when they let their guards down and _share_.

Before they knew it, it was another nightfall. Tomorrow would be the last morning for the duo to reside in the forest. The day after that, hopefully, they would be at the center of Region 3, and with more luck, healthy and loaded with supplies.

Tarja was the one who went searching for fresh wood to burn, and they agreed that Sharon would stay put. With her partner’s absence, Sharon stared at the remnants of twigs and ashes.

Her heart was heavy although she had exchanged so much with the Finn. She couldn’t explain her feelings. She felt lost. Tarja was everything she didn’t expect and everything she needed, but Sharon felt anxious. Perhaps she was angry that after everything, they still had to obey the government’s rules. Perhaps she was scared that something should happen to her friend. Perhaps she was afraid that she couldn’t be what the Finn needed. Sharon had too much to lose now, and she couldn’t fathom what would she do after Tarja was dead, or worse, turned and then Sharon would have to kill her—

“Why the long face?”

Sharon jolted upon Tarja’s voice. Tarja’s curious eyes trailed Sharon as she stood up. Sharon seemed distraught.

“Oh…it was nothing, really. Let me help you.”

Tarja laid the dry twigs on the ground. And when Sharon stepped in to assist, Tarja intercepted her hand from reaching the twigs.

“I thought we’ve agreed to no more walls.”

Seeing how sincere and gentle Tarja was, Sharon’s face fell. She sighed as she caressed the knuckles of Tarja’s hand before she finally answered, “I really, really think I would never deserve your patience.”

“Nonsense.” Tarja gave a crooked smile, “If you are fishing for compliments, then fine. I think I would never deserve who you are, too.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh, you dummy.”

Tarja placed Sharon’s hand next to her lips and gave her a brief kiss before letting go. Sharon bit her lip and looked away, flushing from head to toe.

“Now I’m guessing you’re worried about tomorrow?”

“You read my mind.”

Silence took place as they crouched down to build a fire. By the time they finished, Sharon’s insecurities were not as bad as they started to gnaw at her.

“So you feel like talking tonight?” Asked Tarja, Sharon stared back and found a leaf stuck in the Finn’s hair.

“Wait! Something’s in your…I’ll get it for you.” Not waiting for Tarja, Sharon stepped into her personal space and caught the leaf. Tarja’s breath hitched, not expecting contact and proximity.

Sharon frowned. Yeah, they’d been sleeping together. And yes, Tarja ambushed her with affectionate moves from now and then, but whenever Sharon reciprocated, Tarja gave responses that were almost negative.

“What’s wrong?”

She asked timidly. Tarja’s eyes darkened as she set her jaw. Weird. It was as if she was trying hard not to do something.

“Ok. No more walls. Ok.” Tarja announced. She took a deep breath while Sharon watched amusedly.

“I don’t think we should sleep together anymore. It’s better that we sleep separately.”

Sharon blinked. Tarja blushed. She licked her lips as if she was stalling for further explanation.

“Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No it’s not you, it’s me.” Tarja answered, defeated as she looked away. She changed her stature and said, “It’s just that…I have your blood in me, right?”

“Yep, so?”

“So I have those feelings, because for some biochemical reasons my senses are all heightened, and sometimes when you…come too close to me, it becomes too much.”

Tarja gulped; as if she had just reminded herself, she took a step back. Sharon shifted closer unconsciously.

“What becomes too much? Are you feeling ok? Is it some kind of side effect?”

The Finn’s breath was coming in shorter patterns, Sharon noticed. There was a flush climbing up of Tarja’s neck. Her body temperature was higher.

A look was forming in Tarja’s eyes. It made Sharon nervous. When Tarja stared right into her eyes, she couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t think it’s a side effect.” Tarja said quietly. Sharon could see it now a part of that strange (but captivating) look was _determination_. Tarja closed their distance and suddenly, Sharon might have a hint at what Tarja was talking about.

“For instance, whenever we touch it feels like burning…a good kind of burn, I mean. But I don’t know if I can...I don't know if I wanted more.” Sharon could feel her breath ghosting on her face. Tarja’s face was illuminated by the fire beside them. Her expression was incomprehensible.

“What kind of touch?” Asked Sharon. She experimentally traced Tarja’s cheekbone with her thumb. The skin vibrated beneath her fingertip. “Like this?”

“Yes.”

“And how about this?”

Sharon's hand slipped down to gather Tarja’s chin between her forefinger and thumb, and then, she tilted her face upwards. Tarja didn’t stop her. Inch after inch disappeared between them, as Sharon leaned in for a kiss.

It was better than the last few times. This time it was unhurried, because no one was busy committing suicide or being delirious. This time it was real and raw and _slow_.

When they ran out of air, they paused shortly and looked into each other’s eyes.

“I think I know what you’re talking about now.” Sharon said, a little breathless and distracted. Tarja’s pupils were dilated. The campfire felt too warm.

“Oh really?” _Desire, it is desire._ That thought hit Sharon so strong that she was afraid that Tarja could hear it. But Sharon knew Tarja could already see it in her eyes.

“Want me to prove it to you?” Sharon’s hand descended to her bare throat. Tarja’s breath got caught in her throat. It had been too long. Her skin was on fire, and a different pulse was rekindled alive.

“Yes, please.”

Almost regal, Tarja inched closer again and pressed her lips to Sharon’s. The kiss was also new now. It carried desperation, a need they were both repressing. Sharon squealed into Tarja’s mouth when she bit her bottom lip. Tarja departed instantly, mildly concerned. Sharon’s eyes were glassy, and her mouth was swollen.

“Do it again.” Purred the brunet. That was all the Finn needed. Tarja cupped Sharon’s cheeks and drank in Sharon with short, frenzied gulps. She felt like losing control. Sharon ran her hand through Tarja’s hair, and down Tarja’s back to settle on her waist.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Tarja was pretty sure that this would be the last time they stopped for a breath. Sharon’s face was pink, and her body was humming for Tarja to place her hand on her.

“I thought we are already doing this.”

Chirped Sharon smugly, a little shy, and it made Tarja’s head spin. But it didn’t matter as long as Sharon was here to be her gravity.

So they reconnected, meteorite to earth, clash to explosion.

***

Coldness bit into Tarja’s bones. She opened her eyes groggily. It was morning.

Sharon was in her arms. They were both naked and deprived of sleep (well, you know what would happen to people who have not been having sex since forever).

Last night was...Tarja would prefer to not say anything because in this ungodly hour, it was the worst timing to get bashful. Instead, she curled tighter around the brunet, hoping the other human could provide more warmth.

“Go back to sleep.” Mumbled Sharon, and it almost scared Tarja into a heart attack. She smiled lopsidedly, tired and ready to drop back to unconsciousness. In a few more hours they would need to get up, pack, and walk another hundred miles to another destination. They would probably take a different route; they couldn’t rely on the river forever, or else The Government would find them.

Sharon adjusted her hold on Tarja's waist; it broke Tarja’s train of thoughts (which was threatening to drive the sleep out of her system).

It was this way that they were protecting each other: Sharon for Tarja, and Tarja for the both of them. It was not difficult at all. It was the way that it worked between them. Sharon would burn herself to give Tarja warmth, and because of that, Tarja had to—

She couldn’t finish that sentimental philosophy. She fell back to sleep, and joined her love.

_~Fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG this chapter has more than ten thousand words, oops  
> I can't believe I've finished this! On a finals' week! (Ecstatic, fulfilled laughter turns into horrified screams  
> Thank you for reading this fic, and I apologize that it took me half a year to finish this  
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed it so far, and have a nice 2021 :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think!


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